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csnews · 4 years

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'I've never seen or heard of attacks': scientists baffled by orcas harassing boats

Susan Smillie - September 13, 2020

Reports of orcas striking sailing boats in the Straits of Gibraltar have left sailors and scientists confused. Just what is causing such unusually aggressive behaviour?

When nine killer whales surrounded the 46ft boat that Victoria Morris was crewing in Spain on the afternoon of 29 July, she was elated. The biology graduate taught sailing in New Zealand and is used to friendly orca encounters. But the atmosphere quickly changed when they started ramming the hull, spinning the boat 180 degrees, disabling the autohelm and engine. The 23-year-old watched broken bits of the rudder float off, leaving the four-person crew without steering, drifting into the Gibraltar Straits shipping lane between Cape Trafalgar and the small town of Barbate.

The pod rammed the boat for more than an hour, during which time the crew were too busy getting the sails in, readying the life raft and radioing a mayday – “Orca attack!” – to feel fear. The moment fear kicked in, Morris says, was when she went below deck to prepare a grab bag – the stuff you take when abandoning ship. “The noise was really scary. They were ramming the keel, there was this horrible echo, I thought they could capsize the boat. And this deafening noise as they communicated, whistling to each other. It was so loud that we had to shout.” It felt, she says, “totally orchestrated”.

The crew waited a tense hour and a half for rescue – perhaps understandably, the coastguard took time to comprehend (“You are saying you are under attack from orca?”). To say this is unusual is to massively understate it. By the time help arrived, the orcas were gone. The boat was towed to Barbate, where it was lifted to reveal the rudder missing its bottom third and outer layer, and teeth marks along the underside.

Rocío Espada works with the marine biology laboratory at the University of Seville and has observed this migratory population of orca in the Gibraltar Straits for years. She was astonished. “For killer whales to take out a piece of a fibreglass rudder is crazy,” she says. “I’ve seen these orcas grow from babies, I know their life stories, I’ve never seen or heard of attacks.”

Highly intelligent, social mammals, orcas are the largest of the dolphin family, and behave in a similar way. It is normal, she says, that orcas will follow close to the propeller. Even holding the rudder is not unheard of: “Sometimes they will bite the rudder, get dragged behind as a game.” But never with enough force to break it. This ramming, Espada says, indicates stress. The Straits is full of nets and long lines; perhaps a calf got caught.

But Morris’s was only one of several encounters between late July and August. Six days earlier, Alfonso Gomez-Jordana Martin, a 31-year-old from Alicante, was crewing a delivery boat near Barbate for the same company, Reliance Yacht Management. They were proceeding under engine when a pod of four orcas brought their 40ft Beneteau to a halt. He filmed them – it looks more like excitement and curiosity than aggression – but even this bumping damaged the rudder. And the force increased, he says, over 50 minutes. “Once we were stopped, they came in faster: 10-15 knots, from a distance of about 25m,” he remembers. “The impact tipped the boat sideways.”

The skipper’s report to the port authority said the force “nearly dislocated the helmsman’s shoulder and spun the whole yacht through 120 degrees”.

At 11.30pm the previous night, 22 July, Beverly Harris, a retired nurse from Derbyshire, and her partner, Kevin Large, were motor-sailing their 50ft boat, Kailani, just off Barbate at eight knots, when they came to a sudden standstill. It was flat calm, pitch black. They thought they’d hit a net. “I scrambled for a torch and was like, ‘Bloody hell, they’re orcas,’” says Harris. The couple checked their position and found the boat pointing the opposite way. They tried to correct several times, but the orcas kept spinning them back. “I had this weird sensation,” Harris says, “like they were trying to lift the boat.” It lasted about 20 minutes, but felt longer. “We thought, ‘We’ve sailed across the Atlantic, surely we’re not going to sink now!’” Their rudder was damaged but got them to La Línea. It was a long night. “Kevin said I should get some sleep. I said, ‘Are you joking? I’m having a gin and tonic,’” recalls Harris.

While enjoying her drink, Harris could have spared a thought for Nick Giles, having a sleepless night alone after an almost identical encounter off Barbate just two and a half hours earlier. He was motor-sailing, and playing music when he heard a sudden bang “like a sledgehammer”. The wheel was “turning with incredible force” as the vessel spun 180 degrees, dislodging the autohelm and steering cables. “The boat lifted up half a foot and I was pushed by a second whale from behind,” he says. While resetting the cables, the orca hit again, “nearly chopping off my fingers in the mechanism”. He was pushed around without steering for about 15 minutes before they left him.

Catastrophic encounters between whales and boats are not unknown – the best-known events all took place in the Pacific. In 1972 the Robertson family from Staffordshire were shipwrecked off the Galapagos Islands after an orca strike (their book, Survive the Savage Sea became a classic). The following year, also on the way to those islands, Maurice and Maralyn Bailey’s 31ft boat was holed by a sperm whale. In 1989 William and Simone Butler lost their boat as a huge pod of pilot whales rammed them. In these and all other known cases, the mammals ignored the humans who took to life rafts; it was the boats that attracted their ire. More usually in encounters, the whale is left dead or injured. The International Whaling Commission records these strikes – more collisions are occurring with private boats as technological advances increase performance speeds.

The encounters described around Barbate were certainly frightening for the crew, who understandably felt targeted, but it’s unlikely they were meant as aggressive attacks. At least two other boats had harmless encounters. On 20 July Martin Chambers, a yacht master for Allabroad Sailing Academy, was unconcerned when they were joined by a pod near Barbate. One individual “had hold of the rudder and stopped us moving the boat”, he says. “That’s the first time I’ve seen them do that.” It seems the encounters increased in intensity, but it’s also worth considering that different boat constructions can suffer different outcomes – rudders on some modern boats can be quite fragile.

“These are very strange events,” says Ezequiel Andréu Cazalla, a cetacean researcher who talked to Morris. “But I don’t think they’re attacks.” Orca specialists around the world are equally surprised, agreeing the behaviour is “highly unusual”, but are cautious, given that the accounts are not from trained researchers. Most agree that something is stressing the orcas. And when it comes to sources of stress, there are plenty to choose from.

“The lack of tuna has led these orca to the very edge with only 30 adults left”

The Gibraltar orcas are endangered – there are fewer than 50 individuals left, with a continuing decline projected – adults and juveniles are sustaining injuries, suffering food scarcity and pollution. Their calves rarely survive. The Gibraltar Straits is, Cazalla points out, “the worst place for orcas to live”. This narrow stretch of water is a major shipping route. And the presence of orcas attracts more marine traffic – highly profitable whale-watching. Theoretically, it is regulated, but some operators flout rules about speed and distance to chase the animals. Constant harassment by boats affects the orcas’ ability to hunt. Which brings us to the biggest stress of all: fishing.

The orcas return to this noisy, polluted stretch of water for one reason – to feed. They specialise in hunting bluefin tuna, also highly prized by humans. The near collapse of bluefin tuna between 2005 and 2010 “has led this orca population to the very edge, with about 30 adults left”, says Pauline Gauffier, who has studied them.

The Straits is an important migratory route for the tuna. It has been economically crucial to this region for thousands of years – the Romans produced coins in Cadiz depicting the once bountiful fish. Local fisheries still use an ancient technique – almadraba, a complex system of trap nets. Each spring, the bluefin arrive to spawn in the Med; many find their way into the nets instead. In July and August, as the tuna leave for the Atlantic, the fishermen switch to drop lines – baited with fish and lowered with rocks. These artisanal techniques are far less harmful than trawling, purse seining or driftnets – and than the reckless sport-fishing boats speeding at 10 knots, trailing long lines.

“They target the orca, because they think there must be tuna under the pods,” says Jörn Selling, a marine biologist for Firmm whale watching and research foundation with 17 years’ experience in the Straits. “They go right through the pods, their hooks cutting the dorsal fins”.

In the past, the orca chased the bluefin to exhaustion, but with fewer and smaller fish available, and the pressures from human activity, some have adapted. As a result, there now exists what biologists call “depradation” – a complex balance between the orca, tuna, and humans – and what the fishermen call “stealing”.

Since 1999, two of the Straits’ five pods have learned to take tuna from the drop lines, leaving the fishermen pulling up the tuna head alone. It’s infuriating for the fishermen, but for the orca, this is high risk. Several have sustained serious injuries. “We see marks caused by fishing lines,” says Selling. “We hear about young orca getting hooked.” There are two females with severed flippers – “Lucia”, Selling says “lost her baby together with her flipper, due to the interaction with tuna fishermen”. Gauffier points out that “there is little the fishermen can do to avoid line or hook injuries” when orca interact; and it’s not known what caused the injuries. But many conservationists suspect some fishermen retaliate violently.

“The fishermen hate the killer whales,” says Selling. The orca are protected, but “unobserved, the fishermen do what they want. They see them as competitors.”

Stories persist of fishermen stunning orca with electric prods, throwing lit petrol cans, cutting dorsal fins. Cazalla has seen two orca with recent injuries (Morris thinks there was an injured individual at her boat). “One has a significant scar – you can see white tissue so it’s deep.” This, he thinks, is unlikely to be from a propeller, which would cause multiple scars.

Selling points out that the orca interact with the almadraba as well as drop-line fishing, and talks of a male which worked out how to navigate the labyrinth of submarine nets to take tuna in Barbate years ago. This orca was later observed with serious injury to its dorsal fin. It hasn’t been seen since.

But the orca have endured harassment for decades. What explains the new behaviour? Was there reduced noise during the Covid lockdown? Selling says yes. “No big game fishing, no whale watching or sailing boats, no fast ferries, fewer merchant ships.” He’s intrigued by the idea that the orca had two months with reduced noise – “Something most of them probably never experienced before” – and considers the possibility they felt angry as the noise restarted (Gauffier thinks this unlikely, but notes that the Barbate pod still actively chases tuna, “for which they need a quieter environment”).

There is one very unscientific phrase I hear repeatedly from several researchers: “Pissed off”. Some speculate that the multitude of stresses these highly sentient cetaceans have endured – years of grieving lost calves, injuries, competition for fish, coupled with a pause and reintroduction of human activity, could have affected their behaviour. There is a great deal we don’t yet know about orca, which, like us, have evolved complex cultures and different languages around the world. A couple of years ago Ken Balcomb from the Center for Whale Research talked about endangered orca being dependent on scarce chinook salmon in the Pacific Northwest. “I’ve seen them look at boats hauling fish. I think they know that humans are somehow related to the scarcity of food. And I think they know that the scarcity of food is causing them physical distress, and also causing them to lose babies.”

Sounds like anthropomorphising? Lori Marino, neuroscientist and president of the Whale Sanctuary Project found in orca brains an astounding capacity for intelligence. “If we are talking about whether killer whales have the wherewithal and the cognitive capacity to intentionally strike out at someone, or to be angry, or to really know what they are doing, I would have to say the answer is yes. They are likely defending a territory or resources.”

Meanwhile, Nick Irving from Reliance is wondering if he should send clients’ boats out after the last three sustained damage: “Is it reckless?” Neither of us say it, but we’re both thinking he doesn’t want to be the mayor in Jaws – the obvious, if lazy stereotype that comes to mind. Word is starting to get out, frustrating Espada. Friends call, asking about the “attacks”, if it’s safe to swim. “Are you mad?” she asks. “Of course it’s safe!” As shark conservationists know all too well, it’s difficult to protect endangered animals with a bad image.

This tiny population’s presence is of huge importance, and if human activity is affecting their behaviour, human activity must be regulated. Gauffier has presented the Spanish Environment Agency with a conservation plan proposing that in the Barbate area, “activities producing underwater noise should be reduced to a minimum”. This is the very least that should happen. Each sailor I spoke to was concerned that their activities had stressed the orca. Victoria Morris, who has been searching for a specialist subject when she returns to study marine biology in autumn has found her topic. The Gibraltar orca has one more ally – which is good because these majestic, beleaguered mammals need all the help they can get.

#news #wild #cetacean #orca #killer whale #gibraltar #whale #dolphin

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

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Humans are Space Orcs “Human Repellent”

While you are reading this one, I want you to be thinking and come up with another marketable idea that aliens can use to repel humans like in the story :)

Also a few people have asked me lately if its ok to make suggestions or prompts, and I just want to remind you all that that is very much welcome to please do so.

They landed at Revelation Colony two weeks after the prison riot ended. If this had been an old sci-fi movie, than this would have been exactly the place for your titular hero to make a shady business deal with an underground alien mob boss, but in doing so manage to insult him inciting a chase across space itself. However, Revelation didn’t exactly follow the tropes of old film. Sure, it was the center for the black market in this quadrant of the galaxy, but instead of organs or artifacts of power, it mostly dealt in undeclared souvenirs like snow-globes and commemorative bobble heads.

The criminal presence was so laughable that, despite being the hub of black market trade, it was most known by tourists for its low prices, great market deals, and as a major staging area for UNSC and GA interests.

This was their main purpose for being here: speaking with superiors, allowing the crew a break, and perhaps finding someone who might be able to help them with Conn. Ever since the prison riot, and the defeat of the Gibb scientist the starborn hadn’t moved to so much as scratch an itch.

According to Krill, the starborn was stuck in a state of unresponsive catatonia with brain waves similar to that of a coma patient. Commander Vir couldn’t help but feel responsible for the whole thing. In fact, Conn’s current state was in direct relation to the rescue attempt by the starborn to save the Commander from losing more limbs.

They had discussed the incident multiple times since it had happened, but could make no real sense of what had happened. The commander was under the impression the starborn had overloaded himself, and the Gibb with some kind of memory flood or something similar. He could only vaguely remember the feelings that had come upon him when the starborn had touched him, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Sunny had suggested that the starborn had used Vir’s own memories and emotions to short circuit the Gibb, but also ended up catching some of the backlash himself.

Commander Vir wasn’t quite sure about that for he didn’t feel that his memories or his emotions were strong enough to do something like that. He personally thought it was some last ditch defense that the starbor itself could employ, but who knew.

IN the aftermath of everything, the Gibb scientist had been locked back up as catatonic as Conn, Noctus had managed to escape, but according to corporal Ramirez, he wouldn’t be gong very far, or at least not going where he wanted.

As the Tesraki was escaping, Ramirez had managed to partially destroy the warp converter leaving the Tesraki flying blind even if he managed to survive.

So, after all of that, they had returned to somewhere with human influence to rest, relax, and debrief. The admiral had been as pleased with the outcome as he could be, and had eventually conceded to give the crew a well-deserved break. Commander Vir, however hadn't been so lucky, and was ordered to do the admiral a favor before he got his rest.

So that is why he was here, walking down the dark, crowded streets, surrounded on all sides by colorful neon booths containing wares from all over the galaxy. Hundreds of faces stared at him as he passed hawking their wares with raised voices and pleading beckoning motions.

Behind him Sunny walked with her head high examining the crowd for any perceived threats. it hadn’t been a question that he was going to bring her with him, for by this point, it had been openly established that she was his partner when it came to the smaller operations. Not only did they work well together as a team , but they very much enjoyed the other’s company.

“Remind me why we’re here again.” The question sounded more jenuine than it did annoyed, otherwise she seemed relatively happy to be off the ship, and out and about. He also had a feeling she was relieved he hadn’t been reduced to a catatonic mess like the other two, and may have been slightly worried, keeping watch on him to make sure he didn’t collapse drooling.

“I guess the GA has caught wind of a new issue cropping up in some of the marginal alien markets. Apparently, there is a high market demand for products that can repel, or incapacitate a human.”

Sunny blinked in surprise as they cut past a colorful rack of hats, and down onto another less-crowded side street.

“Why would they be doing that?” she wondered almost managing to look baffled.

“Well, it’s only to be expected, with the influx of humans in the galaxy they are bound to run into the worst of us.” It was true, in fact, humanity brought with it what might be considered the best and worst of the galaxy. Where there were men like Commander Vir, there had to be his equal and opposite in all ways. Luckily the GA understood the nature of humans, the best and the worst mentality, an entire species of ride or die types who could come out the best of the best or evil beyond comparison.

Of course, before this understanding was met, there had been some massive PR nightmares which came with the first inter-species murder, assault, robbery etc etc, but eventually things had straightened out, but aliens were no less frightened of humans than they had originally been.

��So are we here to confiscate their things?” Sunny wondered

“No, no of course not, even on earth we make weapons to repel other people. We are just afraid of us as the rest of the galaxy pepper-spray, tasers, knives, guns,, your own keys. We have been in the business of protecting ourselves from humans long before you guys thought of it. No, the issue here is whether the objects are legal and use reasonable force.” Though when it came to humans, reasonable force usually meant lethal force for any other species, “Ah, here we are.”

The commander stopped in front of a shop, whose door was covered by a beaded curtain strung through with neon orange lights. The effect was gaudy and blinding, but he shook the light from his eyes and pushed inside. Sunny followed after.

Their presence, and entrance, into the small store immediately halted everything in its tracks. The Tesraki proprietor had frozen mid way through his sales pitch to a rather shiftly looking pair of Gibb. A few of the other customers squealed and hid behind the stands.

It was clear that a human and a Drev weren't exactly what they hoped to see this morning, perhaps the last thing they wanted to see. Commander Vir tipped the brim of his uniform hat and tugged at the collar of his suit jacket where- on stood his wings, the insignia of the GA and the UNSC, “Morning. I’m Commander Vir of the UNSC affiliated with the GA and this is my weapons lieutenant Sunny Lumnusdaughter.”

The tesraki eyed them suspiciously as they stepped further into the shop. Despite being a human, Everyone knew the name Vir, and Sunny to an extent, so they didn’t cut and run.

“What do you want!” The tesraki demanded, “I have my sales license, and my customers have every right to protect themselves from brutes like you.”

The commander simply smiled, “Of course, I don’t deny that right, The GA just wants to make sure that it is being done within the constraints of the law.” He crossed his arms over his chest, “So please, go on with your demonstration, and pretend we aren’t here.”

Hesitantly, the Tesraki went back to his pitch eyeballing the human the entire time as he went. “Yes this little beauty right here is made BY humans FOR humans and can apply a force of about 50,000 volts of electrical current directly into the body. This causes the muscles to seize up immediately and the human will be grounded. Downside is the human can immediately get back up after the shock is discontinued, so while it won’t stop one, it will be a serious deterrent.” The Tesraki eyed the Commander, “Of course, the best way for ou to test if my products are legit and ethical….”

The commander frowned, “You just want a demonstration to help sell your product.”

The Tesraki shrugged it’s furry shoulders, “You can hardly go back to your superiors and say that you know for sure this is ethical if you haven’t tested it.”

There was a moment of pause and the commander sighed eventually looking at Sunny, “If he kills me, rip his limbs off.”

That dampened the Tesraki’s smug look, but the commander was already unbuttoning his uniform jacket which he pulled off and hung on a hook on the wall removing his cap as well leaving him only in a white long sleeve- button up shirt and the uniform slacks. Sunny didn’t much like this idea, but glowered at the Tesraki to let him know she meant business.

The human stood legs slightly bent hands out to his side. Sunny stood behind him.

“Watch closely.” the Tesraki began before stepping forward and jamming the contacts against the human’s stomach. There was a sharp snapping sound which repeated violently as the human immediately seized up only managing to bite a curse through his locked jaw before falling backwards. Sunny caught him as the human twitched and jerked violently. She almost worried he was having another seizure before the Tesraki pulled back, and the human immediately regained his body groaning only to slowly regain his feet.

“Ow that hurts like a bitch.” He cursed rubbing his stomach where the contacts had made.

The spectacle had drawn a rather interested crowd, and the Tesraki was looking very smug, “See quite effective.” he looked towards the commander, “Do you want another?”

“Hell no, what kind of question is that.”

The Tesraki ignored him and turned back to his crowd, “See, a fantastic deterrent.”

“Now lets see, this little spray bottle here is another human invention for humans and contains the poison capsaicin in concentrated doses. Now, while some humans enjoy small doses of this poison on their food they do not enjoy it sprayed in their eyes. It will result in a burning sensation, and an overreaction of the mucous membranes.”

The commander backed away his hands raised, “Wow, uh I am not demonstrating that. I would like to be able to see for the next few hours thanks.”

“See even the mention of it causes them to back away in fear.” The Tesraki said dramatically

Commander Vir rolled his eyes as the rest of the crowd oohed and aahed.

“Humans, you may have heard have more senses than any creature in the galaxy…. Accept maybe for the Drev.” He glanced at Sunny, “So what if I told you that I could make the human run from this room without lifting more than a finger.”

Around the room the crowd shifted in disbelieving anticipation

“The one sense they have that the rest of us do not, can be used against them. You see that weird protrusion in the center of its face.” The commander frowned, “That is a nose and it can be used to detect particles in the air. Everything sheds particles of itself, and if there are enough of them, a human can sense it. I would very much recommend this little device for those who come from the Iota quadrant, and are known to smell irresistibly delectable to humans. You see, when this pin is pulled particles are released into the air. When a human breaths them in they bind to chemical protein sights in the nose, and I am told that the smell is quite revolting.”

The commander looked a bit skeptical one eyebrow raised, but the tesraki reached down and smugly pulled the pin. The reaction was ALMOST immediate. For the first second he just stood there and then the man’s eyes widened a hand shot up over his face, and he gagged violently. It seemed as if he tried to adjust himself to the smell, but then gagged again and turned to race towards the door knocking over a stand as he went doubling over a few more times leaving Sunny sure he was going to vomit. He vanished out the door after a couple of seconds, and the crowd clapped politely. The Tesraki returned the pin smugly.

Sunny sniffed at the air. She could just catch a whiff of something, but having been born on a planet dominated by volcanoes, it hadn’t been prudent to make her susceptible to bad smells, as sulfur was common. It was more useful to be able to detect sweet and sour smells.

“Scientists believe that this reaction exists as a primitive way to keep the creature from ingesting anything poisonous. The human nose cannot tell the difference between a smell inside the mouth and a smell outside the mouth. If the nose detects a dangerous level of certain types of chemicals that could be poisonous, it demands that the human move immediately. It can even cause an involuntary holding of the breath and a regurgitation of the last meal i.e those horrible noises it was making as it left.”

It took awhile for the commander to return, and when he did, he was mad. He marched up hand over his mouth and nose and grabbed the Tesraki by the arm. His voice was somewhat muffled by his hand when he said, “That smelled like a HUMAN corpse, so explain yourself.”

The tesraki calmly brushed him off, “Calm down, Commander, its a simple chemical compound that mimics the bacterial breakdown of your human flesh. No humans were harmed in the making of this weapon. Though you have to admit, it is quite clever.”

“Quite disgusting.” The man commented, but backed away

The Tesraki continued unfazed, “Now this one is a might bit more expensive, and takes a bit longer to operate. See first you used this to scan the human, and then you press one of these three buttons. Or you can press them all at the same time see.” There was a sharp clicking noise, and three small drones launched themselves at the Commander,’s face. The man tried to duck, but the three little pieces connected themselves together and latched onto his head and neck. The bulk of the device was locked around his neck, but a few legs of the contraption gripped themselves over his face.

“What the hell.” He muttered

“Then you press this button.” The machine whirred, and the human shrieked in pain falling immediately to his knees as his head was forced back and to the side. Sunny snarled, and the Tesraki let go of the button.

The man fell to his knees, and the device detached.

“Pressure points, areas of inherent weakness and high concentration of nerve endings on the human body. If pressed they cause severe pain. Humans have more of these points on the body but TW-17, GV-26 and LI-18 are sufficient. The last one can even cause nausea and unconsciousness if worked hard enough.”

Commander Vir rubbed his neck, “AND they can be lethal.” The tesraki frowned, but the huan held up a hand, “Which is why that device requires testing, authentication, and review from the electronics board. If it is going to e used, it has to be a NON-lethal measure with a short burst duration. We don’t want anyone getting funny ideas that they can enslave humanity.” He glowered at the tesraki

Later, when they walked from the store, Commander Vir was looking more the worse for ware. Sunny watched him in pity, “Why do you always insist on hurting yourself?”

The commander rubbed the back of his head, “Do you think I do this for fun?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I am allergic to pain.”

She laughed, leaned over, and picked the human up. He yelped in surprise than looked at her, “Really.”

“You look tired.” And this is how I show my appreciation.”

“Ah yes, by bridal carrying me through the city.” He gripped halfheartedly

“I can do fireman or sack of potatoes, but I hear this one is more comfortable.” She said beginning her walk through the city

Commander Vir only argued for the sake of politeness before dropping it, besides, he didn’t really mind. He was exhausted, and besides he actually kind of enjoyed the attention.

Don’t forget to comment with your idea for repelling humans, if you have one.

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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adarlingwrites · 3 years

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Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who’s willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

Author’s notes: Finally, after months, I finally got to updating the fic! Schedule will be still irregular, but if things go according to plan the next chapter might come at around April 7. Thank you for staying tuned, please enjoy the chapter!

XXIX

January 14, 2278.

The green glow of Percy’s Pip-Boy illuminates the dark corridors of the Vault. I squinted, vaguely reading the time as two in the afternoon. She stands closer next to me. My partner does that whenever we explore vaults, and I can’t blame her.

Even I get creeped out by these damn things.

I didn’t know which was worse; the ones filled with insane clones who screamed “Gary”, or the one that filled my lungs with some kind of drug that made me and Percy trip out of our minds and almost hurt each other.

I don’t even wanna remember either. I must shift my focus on helping Percy find the GECK.

The ventilation is dead, and so is the thermostat, with the vault being in a state of decay for fuck knows how long. Some of these underground bunkers were built when I still had skin. Percy was extra cautious, and she was right to be. We faced several super mutants; Percy took care of them from a distance, while I offered additional firepower, ensuring none of those big green muties came within ten feet of her.

Reloading my shotgun, I hid behind a fallen desk as Percy fired another round from her Gauss rifle, nicking one mutant coming from my blind spot. The corner of my mouth tugs upward when I remember the first time we faced super mutants together, in the DC ruins.

I look at her now, and how she’d grown as a fighter.

Once all the muties in the area are dead, Percy sneaks over to a terminal, the glow of the monitor washing her helmet with a sickly green hue. My partner retracts her helmet, and begins typing away.

Shotgun still warm on my peeling hands, I’m alert to my surroundings as usual, though I can’t help but glance at her baffled expression, her frown frown deepening the more she reads the text on the screen.

“Shit. This isn’t science, this is sick! Charon, oh my god,” she whispers, eyes fixed on the terminal. “Some twisted scientist experimented on the vault residents to make the mutants. Vault 87 is where all the muties are coming from. They kidnap wastelanders and take them here and infect them with the FEV strain that doctor concocted.”

Expression grim, I turn to Percy. “Are you hinting that we blow this place up too, like Paradise?”

Sighing, Percy shuts the terminal off. “It’s too dangerous due to all the radiation in the area, and we don’t have the means to do it now. Maybe we can inform the Brotherhood.”

Knowing those tin cans, I roll my eyes at her. “If they decide to do something about it. They can’t even send their own men to fetch the damn GECK and they sent you.”

“My opinion of them is slowly getting worse as the days pass, that’s for sure,” Percy quips, powering down the terminal. “Fuckers have the most advanced weaponry in all of the Capital Wasteland next to the Enclave and they’re hiring a teenager and her ghoul partner as errand runners.”

At Percy’s remark, I chuckle.

“You mean the Wasteland Avenger and the Ghoul Reaper.”

“I thought you hated those nicknames,” she chuckles, the helmet of her suit protracting to cover her face once again.

“I still do, and Three Dog has no fucking problem using them, and us, to promote the Brotherhood. But those assholes don’t even respect you.”

Percy pauses, then her helmeted face turns to me. “Do you think he’s a little bit biased towards the Brotherhood?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, he preaches about how ghouls are people too, and he’s absolutely right about that, but he says nothing about the Brotherhood's bigotry against ghouls. Worse, a ghoul had been directly and indirectly helping them, and he’s still quiet.”

I rubbed my chin at her observation. “Huh. I’ve never thought of it- Percy, your six!”

She turns around, and sees the centaur approaching us, those god-awful tentacles writhing as it advanced. A few things unsettle me, seeing how I have to deal with my ugly mug whenever I look in the mirror, but those things? It makes the hairs on what little skin I have left stand.

It took two rounds to take it down, its head splitting like a rotten fruit the second time Percy shoots it. Disgusting.

Percy seems to be thinking of the same thing, recoiling and shivering. “Thanks.”

I grunt in response. “Let’s get a move on. I don’t wanna spend another minute in this damn place,” I muttered, and my partner nods.

We advance, taking care of any mutants we bump into along the way. Percy sweeps every area we go into for supplies, and terminals she can tinker with. I have a feeling that her accessing the files in this vault isn’t born out of her natural curiosity now. She’s seeking something.

A truth of some sorts.

On one particular terminal she accessed, she recoiled in horror, stumbling into me. I steady her, my large hands cupping her shoulders as she takes a sharp inhale.

“That bad?”

“Yeah,” she gasps. “Look.”

Barely making out the words, I lean over to read the text with difficulty. Thankfully, Percy spells it out for me. “These are death codes. They represent what the vault residents succumbed to. See that?”

She points at a string of text on the screen. “UD000.”

“Unexplained deaths. If I had to guess, they came up with this to cover up the fact that these people actually died due to the experiments their bastard scientists did to them. Now look at this,” Percy continues, typing away and accessing a list of the deceased. Eighty goddamn seven of those were unexplained.

A twisted feeling crawls up my spine, reminding me of the government program I was forced into.

??? ??, 2074.

Lined up, waiting for what’s about to come next, I stood beside Mag. My lanky limbs were tense, and the skin of my neck felt sickeningly tender, the collar around it making it bulge. From the corner of my eye, I look at my fellow trainees, all six of them.

Out of the hundreds of people they brought in, only the seven of us survived.

Sergeant Williams steps in the room, and all of us move in unison to salute, starched black uniforms barely creasing as we raised our arm for the gesture.

“Listen up, maggots! Out of the four hundred seventy three recruits we had for rehabilitation, only the seven of you didn’t wash out, drop dead, or ate a gun. Consider this the greatest honor, for you are now considered rehabilitated from commie propaganda,” he barks, barely concealing his Texan drawl, spittle flying everywhere.

“Consider this the greatest honor, for you are now ready to dedicate your worthless goddamn lives to the USA! You are to follow every damn command issued to you by whoever holds your contracts! You were trained for this singular purpose, are we clear?”

Our voices filled the room as we shouted “Yes sir!” in unison.

That was the day I was given my name.

The sergeant christened me as Charon, burning away whatever was left of Artyom Volkov, or so he thought.

Out of the hundreds of souls that got wasted from the Enclave’s bullshit, I somehow managed to survive, and I still intend to continue surviving. I have my partner Percy, that jackass DeLoria, and the dog now.

I pull myself back to the present as my partner shuts down the terminal, turning to the medical safe and taking whatever supplies we can get.

“C’mon. I don’t wanna linger here any more,” she whispers, a small tremble in her voice.

Following her to a corridor, the red lights glower over us almost ominously as we pass by several holding cells. The goosebumps on whatever’s left of my skin intensify. It was cold, desolate.

Until some crazy fuck lunged at us from behind a reinforced glass window and scared the living daylights out of Percy, who screams in surprise and bumps into me. Out of instinct, I catch her, and use my body to shield her.

The man continued to bang on the window as we both recovered from the damn surprise, a frown on my face as I took a closer look. The poor guy’s been driven mad from being held there. I doubt we can save him.

Of course, what happened made us look inside the rest of the holding cells.

I regret doing so immediately.

Centaurs, blobs of vaguely fucking human abominations and other unsightly shit occupied the holding cells. Percy is visibly disturbed, gagging, her helmet retracting just in case she vomits from the sights.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she curses, sweat dripping from her brow despite the cold. “We should put them out of their misery.”

“Do you really want to deal with them right now?” I ask her as her eyes watered from the scene. “Let’s just come back for them once we retrieve the GECK,” I continue, gently placing my hand on her upper back.

Percy nods, and wordlessly forges on.

As we rounded a corner, we heard a brash voice ringing through an intercom.

“It can’t be!”

Both of us turn towards the sound. Slowly, cautiously, we creeped at the source, and we saw the unthinkable.

A super mutant is locked behind a holding cell. He’s standing next to the window, looking at my partner and I in surprise. Then, he continued talking. Not the broken speech you’d expect from a mutie, but full, actual sentences.

“Either you are quite real, or I’m going quite mad. Could you actually be a pure human?” the super mutant asks, gawking at Percy. Just to be safe, I remain at her side, still gauging if he can be trusted. “And this… is he another of the experiments, like me?” he continues, addressing my presence.

“Yes, I’m human. He is a ghoul. He’s like that because of the radiation and not an experiment, I’m afraid,” Percy replies, stepping closer to the glass to stare at him back, craning her neck to get a better view of him. What’s left of his jumpsuit are in tatters, and he loomed over the window, as big as the uglies who were dumber than him, if not even bigger. Even I had to crane my own neck upwards. This guy dwarfed me.

Damn, is this what Percy feels like when she’s with me?

“But what are you?” Percy asks.

“Me? You care who I am?” he asks, and I can almost hear Percy’s heart break at the question. He seemed like an outcast, locked away like this. I get the feeling he’s exactly on good terms with the mutants that roam the vault.

“I’m not used to pleasantries, forgive me. I’m more used to being struck around by the others,” he responds, pressing a meaty hand against the glass. Just as I thought. Guy’s an outcast.

“My name is Fawkes. I’ve lived in this cage… all my life.”

I looked at Percy and expected the sympathetic expression on her face. One look at that face and I already damn know she’s thinking of how to help him out.

“I’m Percy Zhou,” my partner introduces herself. “This is Charon.”

“A friendly mutie. Now I’ve seen everything,” I comment, and I hear Fawkes groan.

“Must you use that vulgar term?” he laments, face twisting in disdain, or disappointment, or an approximation of either seeing how the movements of his face muscles are limited. “Indeed I was born in the F.E.V. Chambers, but super mutant I am not. I prefer the term Meta Human. Suits me better, don’t you think?”

I was taken aback. I mean, damn, this guy sounds smarter than DeLoria. Hell, he sounds smarter than me. And that’s what makes him dangerous; if the dumb ones are a menace, imagine the damage a smart one can do.

“Percy, I think we should go. He might be dangerous,” I mumble, and Fawkes moves even closer to us, a shift in his tone.

“No, please! I haven’t had a single civil conversation all my life! Don’t go,” he begs, and though his voice is grating and booming like the rest of the super mutants, you can almost hear pain behind it.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Percy reassures him, pressing a small hand against the dirty window as a gesture of camaraderie. Then, she whips her head towards me, and whispers. “Charon, he’s lonely. Don’t you think he deserves even just a polite conversation?”

Grumbling, I fold my arms and nod. Percy smiles softly, and turns to Fawkes again. “Is your name really Fawkes? Like Guy Fawkes, the man who was involved in a plot to end his people’s persecution by assassinating a king?”

Fawkes seems delighted that Percy knew that tidbit of information. “Ah! You know your history as well! Yes, the name comes from a man who was willing to fight and die for what he believed in. I found it fitting, given my current circumstances. I’ve taken it from a historical entry in the computer,” he replies, gesturing to the terminal in his cell.

As they continued their conversation, I scanned for any threats that might befall us. What’s left of my ears picked up something from their chat, and my head whips towards Percy.

“I’ll get you out,” she said.

I frowned and folded my arms. “Percy, what the hell are you doing?”

“Charon, Fawkes said that the chamber holding the GECK is highly irradiated, and he can get it for us. Don’t you think it’s a good trade? He can have his freedom, and we can get what we came here for.”

“And I’m immune to radiation too. I’ll take the GECK,” I tell her, straightening my back subconsciously out of bravado. “We don’t know if he can be trusted. For all we know, the moment he gets out of his cell, he’ll attack us!”

“You’re not an errand boy, you’re my partner. That’s perfectly reasonable, but we’ve handled mutants before, Charon. If he gives any indication that he’s going to betray us, you’re free to empty your clip on him.”

This is starting to turn into an argument. I massaged my temples, frowning. “I’m not going to take that risk. I need to protect you.”

“What if he’s actually decent, and we just leave him here to rot and be tormented by the other mutants? You have your freedom now, Charon. Don’t you think he deserves his too?” Percy almost shouts, voice raised, and on her tiptoes.

Her words made me pause. Percy just had to go there, didn’t she? And it was effective too. I look at the big, green super mutant, or Meta Human, whatever he wanted to call himself, and a pang of guilt tugs at my gut.

Grumbling, I relent and nod.

This woman’s heart might be the death of her one day. Setting Fawkes free better be worth it.

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mobius-prime · 4 years

Text

253. Sonic the Hedgehog #184

Chaos Angel

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Jason Jensen

As Enerjak and Super Sonic take off to begin their epic duel for the fate of the world, their clash causes an explosive beam of light to shine so brightly it's seen as far away as Albion (which, if you'll recall, is located somewhere around the area of modern-day England, whereas we're currently closer to New York), which Nicole barely raises the New Mobotropolis shield in time to deflect. Super Sonic snaps Enerjak's staff, and when Enerjak blasts him with a wave of deadly energy in response, he casually reminds him that in his Super form, he's totally invulnerable, making this essentially a stalemate battle between two living gods. Below, Julie-Su is shocked that Sonic survived the blast, but Locke is grumpy and hopeless, saying again that Sonic should have let him kill Enerjak with the Brotherhood's weapon while they had the chance.

It's amazing how clueless and callous Locke is here. I mean, I expected nothing more from him, really, especially given that he has yet to reach the point of redemption that he did in the M25YL timeline on his deathbed, but still, he doesn't even seem to show a single ounce of remorse that this is what his son has become. As the battle rages on, the Destructix watch from somewhere else on the island, and decide they definitely don't want to get caught up in it (which, really, I can't blame them).

Scourge reveals his supercharged warp ring, with enough energy to warp them to another zone entirely, and when Fiona expresses some doubt about leaving Mobius he merely reminds her that the ongoing battle is a battle for the fate of the world, and it's better for them to take their chances elsewhere. She decides to tag along for some "fun," which is after all the reason she left Sonic for Scourge, while Super Sonic continues to try to beat some sense into Enerjak above. He manages to get a yell of "crunch time" from him, giving him hope that his plan to bring Knuckles back is working, but it's not fast enough, making him worry. Julie-Su and Archimedes teleport to the Master Emerald's shrine, which has mysteriously been transported from the Chaos Chamber to become a small island floating in its own right at the edge of Angel Island (it's literally not explained at all how this happened, but I'm assuming it's Ian's creative license to once again make the world of the comics conform to that of the games a little more). They confront Finitevus, who merely states that even if he wanted to stop this, he couldn't by now, as the hex he put on the Master Emerald totally enslaved Knuckles' mind when he tried to tap into its power. He's uncertain about why the hex didn't affect Sonic when he transformed, but is mostly unconcerned, as his plans are proceeding regardless.

Finitevus, I don't think you understand one bit what actual heroes are like. Julie-Su and Archimedes immediately start arguing over which one of them will die in order to bring Knuckles back, with a baffled Finitevus looking on. Locke then rounds the corner, having arrived unseen, and announces that he, in fact, will sacrifice himself, finally regretting what he has brought on Knuckles with his actions in trying to protect him from the devastated future he foresaw. Finitevus, enraged, leaps forward to attack the three of them in an attempt to stop them, but Archimedes grabs onto him and poofs him away, leaving Julie-Su and Locke momentarily alone. Locke sadly looks down at Julie-Su, and explains that for all their extreme methods, in the end the Brotherhood really did love every single member, and only ever wanted the best for Knuckles. Julie-Su begins to cry as Locke takes his place atop the emerald, and begins reciting Tikal's prayer one last time.

Okay, I'm just gonna say it. As much as I genuinely liked Locke's deathbed scene in M25YL, I think this is a much better version of his death, narratively. It's also ten times more heartbreaking. The last time Knuckles ever spoke to his father, Locke hit him with a thinly-veiled threat to his family's safety, and Knuckles punched the screen and screamed at him in response. And now, without a chance to ever apologize or say goodbye, Locke is gone, having sacrificed his life to save his son. I have never doubted for a moment that Locke truly does love Knuckles and has always done everything with the best of intentions, which is precisely why I always felt he would make a better villain than a hero. The Sonic series, as much as I love it, is sorely lacking in three-dimensional villains, with most being either like Eggman - wanting to conquer the world - or Finitevus - wanting to watch it burn. Locke, as I've gone over before, would have been a fantastic antagonist. I think it very true that the best villains are the ones we can relate to in some way. Loving your child and wanting the best for them is very relatable to many people, and permanently messing up your child because of trying to do the best for them is a very real fear for the majority of parents. And Locke realizing this at the end of his life and then giving up said life for the sole purpose of undoing everything he helped to cause is the logical narrative conclusion of this character arc. Because of this, I think Ian ultimately writes Locke much better than did Kenders, despite Locke being based on Kenders' father (which is why I kind of feel bad even saying this, but eh, I've already made the argument that he should have been a villain, I don't think I can make it much worse from here). And as sad as this is, it just gets worse as Knuckles regains his right mind and returns to the ground, asking Julie-Su where his father is. Julie-Su merely starts sobbing and babbling incoherently about how she couldn't stop him, and just as horrible understanding begins to dawn on Knuckles, Finitevus returns through a warp ring, incensed that Locke stopped his plans after all. He yells that with his luck, Knuckles will even remember his time as Enerjak, to which Knuckles furiously replies that he remembers -

An exit fitting for one such as Finitevus. Julie-Su tentatively says that they should head back down to New Mobotropolis to let everyone know that the day's been saved, but Knuckles curtly cuts him off, refusing and claiming that as the last living Guardian of Angel Island, he's never leaving this island again, and he'll guard the Master Emerald alone for the rest of his life. And thus, we've finally come full circle. Knuckles started out as the lone Guardian of the island with no one else to help him, and now he's become such once again. Come on though, man, for real - your father sacrificed himself so you could have your own life free of the destiny he's forced on you, don't immediately try to isolate yourself!

Anything

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Stingray Grafik Wurks

Well, there's still one loose end we have yet to tie up - namely, the fate of the Dark Legion. While those who were happy to be free of their cybernetic trappings were transported to Albion, those who regret losing them have remained with Lien-Da, who now seeks the help of a mysterious figure to get her people's way of life back. Her speech is actually quite fascinating, because for basically the first time we actually get to see what a lifelong member of the Legion thinks of their own history, without immediately being made out to be a cackling evildoer. Turns out… their position is kind of reasonable.

I mean, I did just go over why Locke, and thus by extension the Brotherhood, are not really good people. I don't think they're evil - misguided, more like - but it's clear that in the end, extremism was the name of the game on both sides of the technology debate, and if anything both sides have only gotten more extreme over the past several hundred years. Ultimately, while the Dark Legion has absolutely employed some really messed up methods in their pursuit of their goals, their actual ideology is not unreasonable at all. In the end, they really were just a group of people who didn't want to tacitly accept being thrown back to the stone age by their government, and rebelled when said government - a literal theocracy, if you'll recall - created an entire goddamn task force operating outside of the normal legal system to try to drag them all into a world without technology regardless. I mean, literally, think about it right now - if your government, after a bad incident with one scientist going nuts and trying to seize power, in response decided to ban all technology and mandate that everyone had to regress back to a medieval lifestyle, how many of you reading this, right now, would just accept it and give everything up? And how many more of you would say "No way in hell is this okay" and join a revolution? Use technology in secret, rebel, fight for your right to live life as a modern human being with modern comforts? The Legion was twisted over time into a force that fought for all the wrong reasons, looking for power instead of freedom, but in the end, they were more wronged than anyone else in this whole debate, and absolutely had a right to be angry over the way they were mistreated.

Lien-Da, treacherous nature aside, clearly does believe in her people's way of life, and so she crafts a deal with her mysterious contact - if he makes her the Grandmaster of the Legion, a title which she feels she deserves after watching her late brother and the decrepit Dimitri take the reins before her, she'll join his cause and have her soldiers act as his new ground forces since his were destroyed by Enerjak. Gee, I wonder who this mysterious figure could be? Ah, what the hell am I acting all coy for, it's Eggman, naturally, and he's more than happy to accept this deal. However, to Lien-Da's incredulous disappointment, the position of Grandmaster has already been filled - by none other than Dimitri! Yeah, Eggman's given him some upgrades, turning his dreadlocks into bizarre tentacle-like appendages sticking out from his head bubble. Aw, yeah, Eggman, no need to give him a proper body or anything like that, just give him hair tentacles, it'll be fiiine!

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 184 #writer: ian flynn #pencils: tracy yardley #colors: jason jensen #colors: aimee r ray #colors: joshua d ray

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elephantmt · 4 years

Text

June 26, 10.35 AM - How to re-build your ownself?

Visited an old friend, upon his new house, a newlyweds and has a dog they both named “Chewy” in reference to Star Wars.

I, in the other hand, is in survival mode of 2020′s waves of corporate and promising start-ups downturn - a young Padawan seeking for meaning and guidance from a Jedi master, to deepen the Tech industries for the following future. A brief context to my journey, I have been a believer of an idea, started as volunteer to a start-up in the informal sector and work through the trenches to be among great Jedi.

In the crossroads of two important milestones, time and recognition, its either making the time I have been delaying to pursue my dream in taking a master degree in Technology, or working for a worldly recognized top Tech company. I fear of making to what might be a hazy and blurry path, so I asked that Man, “What should I choose? and what are my missing fundamentals?”, and so he emphasized one thing before anything else,

“I cannot make your decision, its your privilege to do so”.

Then, he continued, building the context. A journey of understanding the fundamentals is to acknowledge at least two things in life;

It’s as wonderful a book revealing great things gradually, in narrative that only one need to specialized delivering it in ways that can sets you apart from commoners

And, try seeing it as an RPG (Role-playing games; i.e Skyrim, World of Warcraft, etc.)

At first, I was definitely baffled, however the elaboration of his metaphorical philosophy is truly simple that it somehow makes sense as he turns the table with a question,

“With all the money in the world, what would you do? put aside worry of safety net and going broke, what would you want to do?”

It took awhile for me to grasp his question, so as I wouldn’t want to sounded stupid and shallow - in respect of his time. Then, I answered and confidently, “I definitely will make my own thing!”, as I figure what else if not that, right?. It turns out his intention was to acknowledge, if I was already figured out my end goal, and so I felt lost at that moment. Because, I realized, I have not found it.

Yes, I have set a of “whats”, “hows” and “whens” in my plan, however at the end of the day even if I choose either master degree or work positions, I can’t make sense of its usefulness. But his justification, somehow cured that feeling of insignificant.

“It’s okay, both of us are alike, we started from vague ideas, and commit to push through”.

He explained, there are people at our age or few years above, already has a crystal clear idea on what they want to achieve at certain age, and there’s us, that follows our intuition. So, now we arrived to the fundamental and how to create the narrative. He went back to his simple metaphor, in explaining the fundamental, build yourself as how you want to play your game (referring to his idea of life as an RPG).

Here’s how to build yourself and play your game;

Know your “game” character

Acquire your tools

Surround yourself with the right people

Know your “game” character - Imagine starting your game with nothing - beside your commoner clothes, bare hands and decent shoes - then the narrator in box texts, explained, “your journey will defined who you want to be along the game; wizards, warrior or shaman. Here are their strengths and weaknesses”.

Sounds familiar? Because it is, I remember a time (mid-way in my tenure) scrolling upon job openings at different start-ups and various role/responsibilities. Despite its complex, next-level and intimidating titles alongside complicated descriptions - it all downs to that...

Business guy/girl

Software engineer guy/girl

Data scientist guy/girl

Digital creative guy/girl

Does that means, we’re already and expected to be boxed according to those suits and put aside any functionality related to the other “characters”? Definitely not, he exclaimed. Imagine playing the Sims, one thing you might notice is their skills statistics, which is general from one character to the other, however you’ll ended up becoming a rocket scientist or a novel writer based on collective decisions, and still able to held any competence intertwining both worlds. So, in other words, we as an individual might have choose a particular area of specialty but has the freedom to go beyond written expectation.

Which brings me to the other point;

Acquire your tools - At this point, I want you to imagine the different things of character skins, weapons and potions, that you bought to enhance your attack/defense. I assumed, you might have already reckoned how the metaphors transcend to our daily life as an individual - well, if not, look at plenty of Microsoft Work tools you have already managed to operate, and university Alma mater. Both, which tends to be a description of our compatibility and thus opens/closed the door to another opportunity.

Is there any limitation to that? Who am I to tell, but what I can say is that I know my own capacity to the amount of skills or badges (i.e certification, and degrees) I need to reach that dream, I still put together.

But you on the other hand, don’t hesitate and start earning that Italian cooking master certification or degrees in cognitive research, you’ve been postponing due to someone else’s justification of, “oh are you sure?”, or “wouldn’t it be a waste of time” statements. One thing for sure, this is your story and their existence is within your decision.

Surround yourself with the right people - As cliche as it might sounds, but we sometimes hate to admit that our 20′s is the product of our surroundings (friends, lovers, teachers, family and others) prior to our graduation. But there’s an analogy in a different side of the spectrum, which is any athlete before going pro, they will need to endure practicing with the professionals to work harder, faster and build the fundamentals accordingly, to reach at that levels thus stand among the greatest. We? may not yet be, but there’s still hope (and time) to recover.

I remember, I used to drink by myself in a bar to forget that I have failed a thing or two, and/or it has been rough week that I have been going through. Obviously none of them gave me clarity or meaning. Even though I have an idea, how I can strive from those moments, but all of my concepts seems doesn’t meet any output I was looking for. Am doing it wrong? is the idea fit my situation? have I put enough effort to it? It turns out, I was too naive by thinking that I can do all of the work by myself, or to create an innovation only from my way of thinking, and focus more on “I think” than other’s opinion or point of view. But, to be honest, I was afraid of asking, as it will attract questions I am not yet prepared for.

So he said, you’ve chosen a character to begin with so why not try play with the big players, and learn their moves, despite the early defeat. The idea is to have a role model, not to set a competition, because at the end of the day what you’re trying to get is “their thought process” more than anything else. That’s how you win your own game. Remember, that you’ve acknowledge your competence stats at the beginning, now increase those stats by playing along with someone that has.

Chewy has began to annoyed and our cups needs a refill, we both put a pause and took Chewy inside to accompany my friend’s wive. And out of the nowhere, she asked, “Any plan of settling?”, as I still compiling a mental notes of my veranda conversation, I was not yet ready for that question. Let’s save them for later.

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marmolady · 5 years

Text

Broken Chains: On a Knife Edge

Book/Series: Endless Summer

Main Pairings: Estela x MC/Taylor (f)

Summary: Part 4: Post-ending (Endless ending). Devoid of the essence that gave her life, Taylor has been left fighting for survival. For Estela, the reality of what they’ve done is about to come crashing down.

Word Count: 7355

Warnings: Probably rated M to be safe, for language.

Previous Chapter/Next Chapter

AO3

Estela woke slowly from a drugged haze, and found herself lying in a bed, crisp sheets tightly surrounding her. Beginning to make sense of the world around her she blinked, taking in the medical room. In the bed next to hers… Taylor. Lying prone, broken, lost to her. The air felt to be sucked from Estela’s lungs, her heart in her throat. It all flooded back.

Oh god, she’s gone. She’s gone.

“Taylor…” she croaked. No… please, no….

As she clumsily lurched to get up, Estela was firmly pushed back into her pillow. Michelle stood over her, an expression of stern resolve on her face.

“Let me--” Estela protested, but even as she did, her body seemed to give out on her.

“Did you see what you did to your leg? You’re not going anywhere.” Michelle lurched forwards, wrapping Estela in a strong hug, feeling resistance at first, then a pull inwards. “She… she’s very weak,” she said. “No response to anything; her pulse is slow… her breathing… but she’s stable.”

Both women had tears in their eyes as they came apart. The lump in Estela’s throat wouldn’t shift; she couldn’t breathe. Neither could she bear to look away from the shell of her brave Taylor, laid out, helpless, on the next bed. Her mind took her back to the caverns beneath the volcano; the blinding light overwhelming her as she clung desperately to Taylor’s form as it grew limp in her arms, adrenalin pulsing through her as she fought off the raptor’s relentless assault. It was like a nightmare, and she couldn’t wake up. Agonised, she looked at Michelle questioningly. What had happened?

Michelle bit her lip. It had not been long ago that she’d been ready to drag Estela for putting everyone through such a scare, but now she could only feel a mixture of relief and pity. “She did it. We can go home. We have a home.”

Estela’s gaze fell back upon Taylor, hooked up with wires and tubes. She watched her laboured breathing. The woman she loved was all but destroyed. The world and everyone in it, saved, but the price was far too much to bear. If Taylor was gone… what did home mean anyway?

“Here,” Michelle said quietly, offering her hand. “I’ll help you over to the other bed.”

Unsteadily, held up by her friend, Estela hobbled to the next bed and carefully curled up against Taylor’s side. She nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck; it was oh so familiar, and yet all wrong. What have we done?

“Estela… I promise we’re doing everything we can for her. It’s just… this isn’t something we can read about and know what to do. Varyyn said that Vaanu left her with just a faint spark of life and the parts of her that are human. But she never was human… I don’t know if there’s enough left of her…”

Her eyes stinging, Estela squeezed them shut defiantly. She had force herself to believe that there was still some hope, that the Taylor she loved was still there, somewhere. But it felt like she was holding onto an empty shell. Even without looking, she could feel Michelle observing her, playing the doctor. “She’s strong,” she snapped. “There’s something there, and I’m not giving up on her. And you can quit looking at me like that. I’m fine.”

“I’ve given you some pretty heavy painkillers. But if I see you up on that leg, I will personally chain you to the bed. It took a lot of stitches and those godsend leaves, but with a solid treatment of antibiotics, it should heal.”

“Some good surgery experience for you,” Estela grumbled bitterly. “You’re welcome.” Her injured leg barely registered as a problem. It was probably a bad wound --she hadn’t yet had a good look at it-- but wounds healed. Taylor might not.

Estela stared out the window over Taylor’s shoulder, dazed. A light shower of rain made the sea appear misty. The world around her seemed to grow in clarity, but she could hardly take it in. As she became more aware, she could feel the throbbing in her leg, all the way down to her foot. But all that mattered was the woman lying next to her. With lethargic movements, she stroked Taylor’s cheek with a grazed and bandaged hand, pausing intermittently to wipe away her own tears.

After a long while, Estela felt awake enough to acknowledge Michelle again. “Was this right? To let her use herself as a sacrifice? One life to save billions, I get it. But we were gonna survive this together. All of us.”

Michelle gingerly sat on the bed beside her. “It was Taylor’s choice. I think… as hard as it is… she did what she needed to do. You both did.”

It didn’t feel right. Not to Estela. How dare the world keep on turning, millions and millions of people continue their lives, oblivious to the fact that the person who’d saved them-- the bravest person she’d ever known-- lay battered and empty? Even the thought that her tio was out there gave small comfort. How could she return to him, continue her life as normal? How could he begin to understand everything that had happened? Estela knew she couldn’t phone. To say what? That she was waiting at her wife’s deathbed? No, she would wait. She’d ring him up, tell him that she couldn’t wait to introduce him to her beautiful soulmate, tell him that she’d be home soon, and that she was happier than she could remember. Taylor would return with her to San Trobida… she’d share with her the places and memories from her childhood… they’d stargaze, looking upon constellations that Taylor had never seen before… they’d plan a future, start a family. The painful lump in Estela’s throat finally gave way, and she cried and cried.

__________________________

The island had dissolved into a state of confusion. In times of crisis, Taylor had always fallen effortlessly into a leadership role among the Catalysts, somehow managing to find balance between the often-clashing personalities of her friends. It had taken several hours for the news of all that had happened to spread; it was only when Quinn returned from Elyys’tel that the whereabouts of half the group was explained. The atmosphere was bizarre. There was ecstatic jubilation and relief, as though the loss of their home and everyone in it had been a nightmare they’d just awoken from. But then, there was no question of leaving. They were a unit, and they’d go home together or not at all. That the miracle had come at such a terrible price weighed heavy… the shock of being on the brink of losing one of their own felt so much more real than the resurrected world beyond. Already, there had been the bittersweet realisation that Kele, along with Yvonne and Malatesta, had returned to their own times. Quinn, having already been emotionally strained by long hours in the medical room, had been distraught, and she and Michelle had cried together until they finally drifted to sleep.

When the inevitable rescue boats came, they were directed them towards the remains of MASADA, where the hotel guests remained in hydrodynamic stasis, awaiting revival. All Vaanti had to distance themselves from the coastline or hunker down within their homes to avoid detection during this time. Ensuring everyone’s safety was a mammoth undertaking that left Varyyn torn between protecting his people and being there for his distraught husband. Many had been unwilling to leave Elyys’tel, wanting to keep vigil for not only one of the Catalysts of legend, but the person who allowed Vaanu to leave at long last. In the end, the village was like a ghost-town by the time the rest of the Catalysts reconvened there. The only visible sign of life was the sprawling wall of flowers, gifts, and messages that piled high at the front of the medical centre. Knowing what it represented, it was a sobering sight. Even desperate as they were for contact with home, and for some semblance of understanding over what had happened, when it came down to it, what mattered most to every single one of them was to be near to Taylor and Estela in their time of need.

Agreeing on an explanation for what had happened since their being cut off from the rest of the world for a year and a half ago was another challenge. At the centre of the shifts of timelines, La Huerta had been totally unreachable. Rescue boats that attempted to approach simply found themselves in empty sea where the island was supposed to be. Baffled scientists could not explain the phenomenon. Eventually, everyone had agreed to plead ignorance. All their methods of transport off La Huerta had been destroyed, and they’d simply tried to survive while avoiding Rourke and the Arachnid soldiers. Anything that had gone on beyond that… was a mystery.

Aleister had been quick to point out the potential dire consequences of the suspicious disappearance of his father, who remained a high-profile figure. That he’d fallen into a hole in space-time would hardly be believed. Certain that any amount of investigation into Estela would leave her appearing guilty as sin, he busied himself with collecting evidence of Rourke’s instability, the use of assassins and the Arachnid troops to apply lethal force, and the generally unstable condition of the island itself. The damning evidence he found for foul play on Arachnid’s part would also no doubt be of great use in securing Jake’s freedom and letting Mike be remembered as the hero that he was. For safety’s sake, evidence of Olivia Montoya’s murder was destroyed. With Zahra’s hacking wizardry, there was soon no sign on any system that there ever had been a Dr. Montoya working for Rourke International. Aleister suspected he’d have hell to pay when Estela got wind of it, but he was by no means going let her take the fall. The ‘official’ story they’d relay to the Costa Rican authorities was that Rourke had been knocked into the lava flow during an attempt on the Catalysts’ lives. For Aleister, it was easier to focus on the logistics side of things rather than to queue up for what would undoubtedly be an awkward visit to the hospital bedsides. He didn’t imagine there was anything he could say to bring Estela comfort, so he cared for her in the only way he knew how-- at a safe distance.

__________________________

“Taylor… it’s me. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m right here. I’m right here, baby. Please… please just give me something, just a little movement to tell me you’re still with me. Taylor? Please. I’m… scared. I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you can’t come back to me. Taylor…”

There was no response, just cold, lonely silence. Tears in her eyes, Estela pressed a kiss to her wife’s forehead. “It’s okay… you can take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a creak as the door opened, and she instinctively bristled. As much as she appreciated that their friends wanted to be near, she just wanted to be left alone… to feel close to Taylor… to even begin to wrap her head around all that had happened.

“You mind if I sit with her?” Diego asked hesitantly.

Estela didn’t look around. If anyone could understand how much she was hurting, it would be Diego. At any rate, Taylor would have wanted him there. If Estela was her soulmate, Diego was the next closest thing. “Go ahead.”

Diego moved the chair around to Taylor’s side of the bed and sat down. It was hard to look at her, and within minutes, his eyes began welling up. “I, uh, asked Varyyn to try and reach her with his mind.” He heaved a painful sigh. “Nothing. He couldn’t find a trace of her.”

The words hit Estela like a kick in the guts. If Varyyn couldn’t make contact telepathically, it seemed impossible that Taylor could hear her pleas for her to wake up. For a long while, the two friends held vigil in silence, which Estela eventually broke, needing to ensure Diego understood why… even while she didn’t herself.

“She didn’t want to put you through this… she hated it,” she said quietly. “There just wasn’t another way to put things right.”

“You should’ve stopped her…” The words tumbled out before Diego could help himself. He glanced worriedly to Estela.

Estela said nothing, wondering if he was right. Staring past Diego to the sea beyond the window, she let herself escape back to a happier time. She could hear Taylor’s laughter ringing in her mind as she playfully ran and splashed through the shallows. But Taylor could not have remained happy knowing that she could heal her friends’ hurt. Could Estela have convinced her to stay? Perhaps, but it would only have brought suffering. Estela had suffered before; she’d try to survive it again if it meant sparing Taylor that burden. Besides, Taylor had stood by her when she’d been walking her own trail to self-destruction, never wavering, offering advice but never pushing. She’d owed her the same faith and trust. Now oblivious to Diego’s presence, Estela snuggled closer and lovingly brushed Taylor’s cheek with the backs of her fingers.

Diego watched the show of affection as the tears kept coming. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Tentatively, he reached out to put his hand on Taylor’s, while trying to gage Estela’s response to what might be perceived as an intrusion. She glanced back to him, her expression soft, before focusing her attention back to her wife. “I should thank you for taking care of her all this time. I wish I could have been there for her, but she had you. It would have meant everything.”

Estela gave a small, appreciative nod, but remained quiet. Totally drained, trying to engage was simply too much. Diego was prone to bouts of verbal diarrhea, but for now, shell-shocked by the condition of his best friend, he seemed able to take the hint.

Together they continued a silent vigil. Exhaustion getting the better of him, Diego eventually fell asleep draped over Taylor’s weakly rising and falling chest. Estela, however, would not allow herself to close her eyes for fear of any change. Settling in for the long haul, she put an arm around Diego’s slumbering form and buried her face in Taylor’s silky blonde hair. She would keep her safe.

___________________________

Night fell, with no change in Taylor’s condition. By this point, she’d received visits from the whole gang at one time or another, though these were kept brief for Estela’s benefit, and the collection of flowers by her bedside was already growing steadily as a result. Only Diego, Michelle and Quinn, who had been there from the beginning, were around for extended periods.

“Hey,” Zahra said dryly as she pushed the door open.

Estela ignored her for several long moments before finally acknowledging that she had company. “I’m guessing you’re on the night-shift,” she stated.

“Insomnia’s got it’s uses.” Zahra wandered over cautiously, then reached out to ruffle Taylor’s hair. “Still holding out on us, Tayls? And I thought I was the uncooperative asshole.”

Estela twitched, fighting with the urge to swat the newcomer away. She really was not in the mood.

“So, uh,” Zahra broached, “you think she can hear us?”

No response. Zahra sat down on the other bed, crossing her legs. She was already regretting that she’d signed up for this. It looked as though she could look forward to long hours of uncomfortable silence. What was she supposed to say to Estela? Nice was not her forte. She sighed heavily as her eyes rested on the two women in the bed beside hers. Taylor was so still, and Estela looked… afraid. Zahra didn’t think she’d ever seen her look scared, not like that. It was kind of unnerving.

“Hey, Estela… you can sleep, okay? I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You can trust me. You know Meech is gonna flip her shit if you don’t rest. If anything changes at all, I’ll wake you.”

Estela rolled over just a little, glancing towards Zahra. There was something like kindness in Zahra’s expression. Someone was way out of her depth. “If I fall asleep, I fall asleep. But I don’t see it happening. I want to know if anything changes.”

“I get it. But at least you don’t have to force yourself to stay awake.”

“Thanks,” Estela spoke softly, her voice a little muffled as she buried her face in Taylor’s hair. “Sweet dreams, Taylor,” she whispered. With a small kiss, she closed her eyes but fought to remain focused on the sound and feel of her wife’s breathing. Her whole body felt heavy; she’d not slept since their anniversary night… it felt a lifetime ago now. But she was so tired… so very, very tired…

Estela leapt awake in the split second that a high-pitched beeping began to sound. “Taylor!” Before she had a chance to properly come to, she took Taylor in her arms, feeling immediately what the alarm had told her; that she’d once again stopped breathing. “Get Michelle- now!” she cried, and desperately began compressions. Come on… come on…

Michelle burst back into the room as Estela was doing mouth-to-mouth. She watched intently, but gave her space, ready to jump in if needed. The monitor’s reading picked up, and she realised that she’d been holding her own breath as she watched for Taylor’s.

“Let me take a look…”

“I can feel her pulse” Estela panted, stepping aside just enough to let Michelle in. Her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest.

“She’s breathing,” Michelle said with a nod. “You did great; you acted fast.” She was impressed, but not really surprised. Estela could always be relied upon to be level-headed and capable in a crisis. Her eyes, though, were filled with panic. Michelle reached out and drew her into her arms. “Deep breaths….”

Estela pulled away angrily. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t sleep now. Trembling, she lay down on the bed, pressing her body protectively against Taylor’s. She stroked away the blonde hair from her face and kissed her cheek. That had been so close. So close. She’d felt Taylor dead beneath her hands, beneath her lips. It could happen again at any second. She whispered lovingly against her ear. “Don’t scare me like that…”

“Look,” said Michelle, “I’m gonna sleep in the other bed. If it happens again, I’ll be on it in a second. But you need to rest.”

“I’m in bed, aren’t I?”

Michelle huffed. “Don’t fight me. We don’t know how long she’s going to be in this condition. If we have a crisis, Taylor will be a lot better off if you’re not a sleep-deprived wreck.” She thought she caught a growl. “You know I’m right.”

Knowing was one thing, but that didn’t make it easy. Waking suddenly to find Taylor slipping away… even for Estela to close her eyes felt impossible after that. Letting her guard down had almost killed Taylor; she’d failed her. How could she ever sleep again? Next time, she might be lost for good. She breathed in the scent of Taylor’s hair, and felt overwhelmed with love. But love became fear.

“Estela, close your eyes. I need you to trust me.”

Something in those words stirred the stricken Estela. She trusted Michelle with her life. But Taylor’s life meant so much more.

“Estela! Do as you’re told, for once in your life!”

Zahra couldn’t hold back a snicker. “There’s no way in hell you’d be that brave if she didn’t have a banged-up leg…”

“Shut up, Zahra! Estela, please. I swear I’ll take care of her… but she needs you to be taken care of too. Please. Close your eyes.”

Scowling, but knowing in her heart of hearts that her friend was right, Estela obliged. There was nothing for it but to tell herself that her wife was in safe hands. She tried to imagine that this was just any other night. Taylor was just sleeping in her arms, safe and content. She made a little grumbling sound but relented. “I trust you.”

A couple of hours later, a bored Zahra sat herself on the bed beside Taylor. Estela had reluctantly dropped off to sleep a little while after Michelle, leaving Zahra with the responsibility of keeping Taylor safe solely on her shoulders. As she looked over her friend, her heart felt heavy. All those months ago, she’d wanted to go home-- she hadn’t wanted it at the expense of a good person, someone who she cared about. If any of them had known, they’d have tried to talk Taylor out of it… though of course that would have been why the idiot kept the plan a secret for so long.

Estela blinked awake, and protectively clutched Taylor closer to her chest. She was just so tired, but she was too alert, too anxious to settle.

At the sight of Estela stirring, Zahra moved back, defensive. She scowled instinctively, preparing to be slapped away, but her expression quickly softened. “I… didn’t mean to disturb you.” While the other woman appeared tense, a frown etched onto her face, she seemed accepting of the company. “It’s just weird, you know… it’s been a day or so, but I miss her. She seems far away. Everything that’s going on, she’d be in the middle of it fixing everyone’s stupid problems. Damn Taylor, always the one to hold us all together; without her everything feels… different. I can’t even explain it.”

Estela’s body relaxed a little, and she sat up, intently staring at her companion.

“Good to see you’ve still got your serial killer stare on top form.”

Embarrassed, Estela averted her gaze. “You almost sounded nice for a moment there.”

Zahra sat back on the end of the bed and crossed her legs. “It’s not as if anyone else can hear. Besides, it’s gonna be a long night if I’m just sitting here in silence watching you sulk.” She paused, self-conscious. “I don’t go around caring about a lot of people. You and Taylor… you matter to me. To be honest, I’m pissed. This whole sacrifice thing is bullshit. Maybe the best person I’ve ever known, and she’s basically been forced to kill herself. It’s seriously screwed up.”

“You’re not wrong.” Estela sighed heavily, flashes of memory whirling through her head. Taylor had been so, so brave; but she never should have had to be. “She did it for you. All of you. Which kinda makes it worse; someone who cares that much shouldn’t be taken away. If she’s gone, I… I don’t know where I go from here….”

For a long while, Zahra said nothing. Probably, she imagined, this might be where two less emotionally repressed people might hug it out. A silent battle raged in her head, before finally, hesitantly, she crawled forward. “C’mere,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact, while drawing Estela towards her. Strong arms grasped hold of her, the grip painful. She patted her roughly on the back. “For someone so smart, you can be a real dumbass. Whatever happens, we’ve got you, all right? And that’s coming from me.”

Estela slumped against Zahra, taking deep breaths. Everything might fall apart at any moment, but at least she was not alone. Again, it was all because of Taylor. Had it not been for Taylor’s open heart, she couldn’t imagine having the courage to build the bonds she now relied on, to love her friends so deeply. She came away, offering Zahra just a nod of understanding.

With a glance over to Michelle, Zahra moved to get up. “Look, it’s pretty obvious you’re not sleeping anytime soon. Meech looks dead to the world-- I could sneak you a coffee. Or something stronger.” A mischievous grin flitted across her face.

“I could really use a rum right now… but I’ve gotta stay alert. You know… just in case.”

“Eh, another time. One caffeine hit coming right up….”

A little while later, she returned with two steaming mugs.

“Colombian, just for you. If you could down it before the doc wakes up and puts my head on a pike, I’d appreciate it.”

“She’d have to go through me first.”

“Aaayyyy, there’s that scary bitch I love!” Zahra sat on the foot of the bed and leaned in to chink her mug to Estela’s. She almost, almost caught the shadow of a smile. “Here’s to getting through; one long, night of hell at a time.”

Estela looked sadly at Taylor, lying still beside her. “One night at a time…” she murmured.

______________________________

The next day brought more of the same; a steady stream of visitors to Taylor’s bedside, while arrangements were made to deal with the broader aftermath of the Catalysts’ time on La Huerta. Estela feigned sleep for most of the day, not having the energy to socialise with well-meaning friends. The occasional dumbass comment from the likes of Craig brought her close to sitting up and chasing them off, but it simply took too much effort. She just lay there quietly as they talked to Taylor, offering their heartfelt thanks and expressing their care and concern. Even as she lay unconscious and broken, Taylor seemed to be the go-to listening ear. Completely drained, Estela would have preferred everyone would just back off. They had their families back- they should leave her with what time she had left with her family. The love and care they showed was deeply appreciated, but she was just so tired. Raj, at least, had come bearing a piled-up plate of patacones with an array of toppings. Somewhat suspiciously as far as Michelle was concerned, Estela had been wide awake for his visit. Still, she reasoned, at least her patient was eating, even if she point-blank refused to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Small victories….

The woman who’d saved the world kept herself at the centre of everyone’s attention, firstly when she caused another scare --the fifth by Estela’s count-- and secondly as a result of her inconvenient official non-existence. Every room she’d stayed in at the Celestial was being methodically ransacked with the hope of recovering a passport. Vaanu had conjured her luggage, so the hope was that somewhere, some hind of official documentation would exist. Zahra was confident that she could get into a government computer and put something together, but there was the unfortunate hurdle being that Taylor was not awake to have a passport photo taken. Quietly, Diego was not averse to the idea of his best friend remaining with him and Varyyn on La Huerta, but he cared for her freedom of choice, and diligently led the search team. After almost giving up, he did a go-over of Taylor and Estela’s hut, and found a shiny new passport beneath a pillow, belonging to one ‘Taylor Montoya’. He gave a happy cry; the name on the document told him that it couldn’t have been created on the plane journey to the island… Vaanu must have had some hope that she’d survive her sacrifice if they’d left a ticket home as a parting gift.

With a wonderful new sense of optimism, he hurried to Elyys’tel to share the discovery with Estela.

For most of the day, Estela had been despondent. Taylor was existing on a knife edge, and she couldn’t bear it. Hearing her friends relaying conversations they’d had with their loved ones, unable to hide their excitement, it made her heart ache for Taylor. She’d done that. She’d literally given them the world. But a what the hell was the point of a world if Taylor wasn’t in it? While her friends were taking their lives back, Estela could literally feel hers slipping away. When Diego handed her the passport, it was like salt being poured in the wound. ‘Taylor Montoya’? They’d never had a chance to be a family together. What did they need a passport for anyway? Taylor wasn’t going anywhere. She was so damn weak that a stiff wind would probably finish her off, if she didn’t simply stop breathing one time too many.

“Estela?”

She pushed the passport back into Diego’s hand. “Uh, thanks.”

“You don’t get it-- this wouldn’t have your name on it if Taylor had it the whole time. Vaanu must have given her this when she gave their essence back… she’s meant to come home!”

Estela’s expression was stony. His positivity was that of someone who hadn’t sat awake for most of the night ready for the next close call. He didn’t --couldn’t-- understand.

Getting the hint, Diego left, giving one last kiss to Taylor’s forehead. He edged past Jake, who was hovering in the doorway, having pointedly not taken the hint.

“What’s with the face, Katniss? You’re gonna scare off all your girl’s visitors.”

“If only.”

“Look, it’s been a rough ride, but you two always come up fighting. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. She’s got this.”

Estela growled. “So, we’ve got another doctor? You? It’s pretty clear Taylor’s not going home. If you can’t offer anything that actually helps, just leave us alone.”

“Wait, you’re serious? You’ve actually given up…?”

Her eyes closed, Estela’s mind flashed with the traumatic memory of Taylor writhing in agony as the light overtook her. “We can’t do anything….”

“This sure as hell ain’t you. Since when do you give up on anything? And this is Princess…”

Turning on a hair, Estela suddenly snapped, throwing a mug that narrowly missed Jake’s head, smashing instead against the wall. “Get out!”

“Woah-- wha--?”

“Get out right now, or I will come over there and make you get out!”

Jake recoiled, startled. “Easy, Katniss… I didn’t mean…”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you have any idea what this has been like? Feeling her stop breathing again, and again… how many more times? Am I supposed to be pushed to the brink over and over, and act like it’s okay? Just get the fuck outta my face, asshole.”

Michelle burst into the room, having heard shouting. “What’s--?”

Singed by the glare that bore into him from the bed, Jake slipped towards the door. “I’m leaving… I….” He paused. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t simply add fuel to the fire, however pure his intentions. He dared meet Estela’s eyes, seeing only fury, but hoping that she’d still feel a friend looking back. With a silent nod, he moved past Michelle and left.

“Estela….”

Her face buried in her hands and shoulders heaving, Estela shook her head. “Just go. I need to be alone.”

__________________________

For the next day or so, everyone kept their distance, with no one visiting except when trying to convince Estela to sleep properly. By the time a generously paid doctor made a house call from the mainland, Taylor had survived yet another brief heart-stopping moment, but the professional opinion was to simply keep on doing what was being done. Michelle was pleased with the progress that had been made. Taylor remained fragile, there was no doubt about that, but her pulse and breathing rate had generally improved considerably. If anything, the immediate concern was more for Estela, who seemed to be retreating deeper into herself.

“Hey, Estela,” Diego, on night duty, slumped into the chair, exhausted. He’d nervously kept clear for a little while, but he couldn’t stay away from his stricken friend for long. Such was the nature of his relationship with Taylor, that Estela was far more tolerant of him hanging around her than she was anyone else-- except for when Raj brought food. “Taylor’s not been getting up to trouble since I’ve been gone?”

“Still the same,” Estela murmured. She edged over and gently moved Taylor with her, leaving a space on the bed. “You can sit with her if you like.”

That was new. With an appreciative smile, Diego joined them. There was barely enough room, but it felt wonderful to properly get his arms around his dearest friend. Beside them, Estela closed her eyes with a sigh.

“You know, she looks better,” he said. “It’s probably hard to see when you’re stuck to her like glue twenty-four-seven, but she doesn’t look like she needs to fight so hard.”

“Michelle said that. Part of me thinks she’s just trying to trick me into letting my guard down.” Estela had been so reluctant to believe it, fearful of getting her hopes up after so many close calls.

Diego looked over her with concern in his eyes. She looked a wreck, her eyes outlined with dark rings, her hair unkempt. It was hardly a surprise. From the small pieces of information he’d managed to extract, Taylor’s sacrifice had been planned many months ago. Estela had kept it together for an awfully long time, no doubt to make it easier on her partner. Sooner or later, it had to catch up with her.

“How’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

Estela just shrugged her shoulders. For a long time, they sat in silence, Diego wondering how he could break through the barriers that only seemed to be getting higher.

“It must be weird… everyone talking to people back home. All happy, excited. I mean, they care about Taylor, they love her, but there’s that nice bit of comfort to take the edge off.”

Finally stirred, Estela opened her eyes and sat up a little. “I’m happy for them. But… it feels so far away. Not important. I can’t even call my tio while she’s like this.” She paused, considering Diego quietly. “You… haven’t called home?”

He shook his head sadly. “It’s stupid, right? Spend all this time crying over losing my family, but they get resurrected and --whoosh-- back to rejection city. I’m happy they’re okay… I just don’t think I can handle them right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

Diego sighed. “Don’t be… it’s been long enough, I know how it is.”

“Bet you could really use your best friend right now. She’d know what to say.”

“Yeah, but at least I can give her a hug. I really believe she’s gonna wake up. I mean, she’s come this far.” He gave a dry laugh. “I just wish she’d do us all a favour and get on with it… but I’m pretty sure if she was here, she’d tell you to stop being so freaking stubborn and get some sleep.”

Estela rolled her eyes. “Maybe.” She looked over at Diego, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with your parents? Is it just… uh… the whole gay thing?”

“Eh, mostly. But even before I came out, I was never what they wanted. ‘Wasting my life away on childish nonsense’, ‘out of touch with the real world’, all of that. When they found out I liked guys, I guess that was just one massive disappointment too many.” Self-conscious, his cheeks flushed, and he awkwardly looked away. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d very rarely had one-on-one conversations with Estela-- aside from when they’d speak Spanish together for the sole purpose of teasing Taylor who was very far from bilingual. He’d certainly never delved into anything sensitive.

“I don’t get it,” Estela said. “Maybe I’ve spent too long here, where no one gives a damn, but it just seems so tiny a reason to turn on someone you love. You don’t deserve that. You’re a good person, one of the best.”

“Thanks,” said Diego with a weak smile. “See, you’re not all that bad at the best friend pep talk. I could hire you as a short-term fill-in.”

“No.”

He laughed. “You didn’t… know… you know, before Taylor?” he ventured. “That you liked girls? No one in your family would have known?”

As if by reflex, Estela held Taylor a little closer. “I didn’t have feelings like that for anyone. There wasn’t room in my life for that. I mean, there still wasn’t room when Taylor came along, but for her… it didn’t matter anymore. She was just… special, I guess. I don’t even know what Tio Nicolas would think. He has strong opinions about things.”

“Like you.”

“Almost. He still can’t beat me in an argument. But I think he would be okay. He’s seen a lot of war, and hate, people dying. When you’ve got that perspective, it doesn’t make any sense to get riled up over someone loving another person.”

Diego was thoughtful for a moment. “Huh. Maybe if San Trobida has another civil war, you should enlist my parents.”

In spite of herself, Estela chuckled. “If they fight like you? Not a chance in hell.” With a glance to Taylor’s still face, she caught herself and sighed. Was she improving? Afraid to hope, she struggled to see it. But Diego did. It was clear in his face. Once in despair, he now looked at Taylor as if there was something left in her. There had to be. What the alternative was, Estela couldn’t bear to fathom.

“Hey…” Diego said gently, nudging Estela’s shoulder, “she’d want you to take care of yourself. She’s been stable for more than a day now; I think the worst is over. Go take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and actually get some rest. You’ll feel better, and maybe you won’t feel the need to throw projectiles at visitors anymore. Otherwise, poor Taylor’s gonna wake up to a miserable, stinky zombie in her bed, and I’ll have to go through the trouble of getting you two together all over again.”

Estela gave him a filthy look. She hesitated, but then gingerly got out of bed. “You won’t leave her…”

“Not a chance.” As she limped out the door, Diego thought to himself, I absolutely cannot believe that worked.

_____________________________

It was some twelve hours later when Estela finally awoke, properly rested after several days of what she was pretty sure amounted to torture. Taylor was fine. No scares. It was clearly not over, not by a long shot, but the hope she felt was no longer false-- simple, angry defiance… it was real. Just maybe, Taylor might be strong enough to come back to her. Even as she thought it, though, she held herself back. You can’t drop your guard. She could be gone at any moment.

There were footsteps outside the door, then a voice. “Knock, knock?”

Estela felt heat rising behind her ears. Jake. This could be awkward. “You can come in,” she grumbled.

“No weapons on hand?” When he received no response, Jake entered the room. “It’s been a while… thought I’d better check in.” He looked her over cautiously, trying to read Estela’s mood. It would be so much easier if she didn’t have a near-permanent frown. He approached the bed, uncomfortably avoiding eye contact. “Look, I…”

“Wait! I uh… I…�� She gave a little huff, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It was never about you. I just couldn’t hold the anger back anymore.”

“Hey, I know that. I’m sorry for the most spectacularly flubbed pep talk in recent history. Honestly, Katniss, after everything you’ve been dealt, I reckon you’re entitled to a dummy spit. We’re just lucky it was me; if you’d unleashed that on Brainstrust, she’d still be cryin’ now.”

“Grace wouldn’t be stupid enough to go around pushing my buttons. But it… means a lot, you know, that you understand.” Estela’s shoulders slumped. It all seemed to catch up with her all at once. The weight of her sadness, and that gut-churning fear. “It didn’t make me feel any better. This isn’t your fault… it’s not anyone’s fault. There’s no one to hunt down, to punish for this.”

“Ya know, I don’t think she’d want that for you anyway.”

“No. She wouldn’t. But I don’t know what to do.” Estela looked into Jake’s face searchingly.

“Look, I… I don’t have the answers for ya. But I’m not goin’ anywhere. We can talk, get a back and forth goin’. Sooner or later, our Princess’ll have to wake up just to tell me to shut my smartass mouth.”

Estela gave a rare smile, even as she rolled her eyes. “Cabron…” And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the tears came, fast and uncontrollable.

For a moment, Jake froze, but then he sat beside her and rubbed her back as she dissolved into sobs. “’S all right. But please don’t tell her I made you cry…”

Estela laughed through her tears but couldn’t keep them from coming. So much had been bottled up for too long. After an age, the tears slowed, and she was left hiccoughing into her friend’s shoulder.

“Feel better?”

“Maybe… a little. I’m just… sorry I lost my shit with you. This has just been…” She shuddered.

“Water under the bridge. But, if you wanna talk…? The usual host of sharin’ circle can’t be with us, but I’ll try and keep the sarcastic comments to a minimum.”

Estela nodded, but for a long while remained quiet. Some things she didn’t talk about, not to anyone. Not to anyone except for Taylor. But, she told herself, Taylor was right there with her. She grasped her wife’s soft hands gently.

“This… isn’t easy….”

“Ya don’t have to--“

“No, I… I do.” She took a deep breath. “So… uh…just before I got the letter saying my mother had died, she wrote to me, begging for help. She knew her life was in danger, that she was running out of time. Tio Nicolas and I did everything we could, but there was no getting anyone in or out of La Huerta without going through Rourke. I’d been trained all my life to take care of myself, but the only person I wanted to protect was so far away, and scared… and I couldn’t reach her. This… feels the same. I’m helpless, Jake. I can see Taylor right there in front of me, but she might as well be miles away. And the whole damn time I know that any second she could be ripped away from me forever, like Mom was. I can’t stand it.”

Jake rubbed her shoulder pacifyingly. “I think I’m getting why you took my head off…”

“Touchy area, yeah. For so long I wasn’t scared of anything, I figured I had nothing to lose. But then I found Taylor. And now…”

“… now you’re basically re-living your worst nightmare come true.”

Estela bit her lip, holding back from crying, and nodded. “It must have been like this for you… with Mike. I’m sorry. I just… miss her.”

For a few moments, Jake was quiet, forced into reflection. He certainly did know that feeling; having survived what should have been the worst trauma of his life, only to go through it all over again. Meeting Estela’s eyes, he felt the understanding that flowed between him and her. “Hug it out?”

Comforting as the embrace of a good friend was, it was hard for Estela not to yearn for Taylor even more. No one could hold her the way she used to. Taylor could put her arms around her and somehow ease every pain in her heart. The only other person who had that healing touch upon Estela had been her mother. But Jake… he cared, and it meant a lot.

“She’s comin’ through this, all right? It’s just a damn shame she’s deaf to your snoring… anyone else would’ve woken up by now and smothered you with a pillow.”

“I don’t-“

Jake snorted. “Got it, got it. My mistake. I’m obviously confusing you with some other freight train.”

Estela smiled appreciatively and held tighter. “I’m not giving up. I might lose my mind, but it doesn’t matter how long it takes. I won’t leave her.”

“So, we’ll keep talkin’ to her. She’ll hear. I mean, this is our Princess. Listening to everyone offload their shit on her is pretty much her thing.”

“I hope you’re right.” Estela said softly. She leaned back over to her wife and lovingly stroked a strand of hair from her face before kissing her brow. “You’ll come back to us, Taylor. There are a lot of people missing you right now. I miss you. I miss you every goddamn minute of every day.”

Jake reached his hand out to take Taylor’s. “We’re not leaving you in peace, so you’d better get used to the idea. Sort yourself out, Princess. You might have brought the world back, but there’s no way in hell we’re leavin’ crazy island without you.”

#endless summer #estela x mc #estela montoya #diego soto #jake mackenzie #michelle nguyen #zahra namazi #playchoices #choices fanfiction

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krinsbez · 5 years

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My Transformers Fancon: Decepticon High Command, Part III

-Tarn of Nyon commands the Decepticon Secret Police, in charge of stomping out internal dissent, and personally leads the DSP's elite Justice Division, which hunts down and brutally kills defectors. As demonstrated by his renaming himself after Megatron's hometown and having his face remade into the Decepticon logo, no one is more loyal to Megatron and the Decepticon cause, not even Soundwave. For one, Soundwave justifies his loyalty by being deeply in denial about the monsters they've turned into, whereas Tarn has no such illusions, and is fanatically devoted anyways. Soundwave also has his own ambitions, whereas Tarn genuinely cares for nothing but seeing Megatron's will be done. Not having realized that Megatron views this slavish devotion with contempt, Tarn is completely baffled why Megatron values Soundwave more than him, and subsequently hates the Intelligence chief with the intensity of a supernova. The only person he hates more is Starscream, who routinely attempts to betray Megatron and yet somehow remains second-in-command. Depsite his attempts not to show his true feelings to his superiors, they're both well aware of it; Soundwave ignores it, except when he needs to manipulate the DSP commander, whereas Starscream finds Tarn's impotent rage hilarious and makes a point of provoking him for kicks. -Thunderwing of Iacon is the newest member of High Command. Powerful, skilled, brilliant and charismatic, he led his Mayhem Attack Squad to some of the Decepticons' greatest victories. He came up with Pretender shells (though the tech was perfected by Shockwave and Tarantulas). He has never shown the slightest hint of disloyalty. He is the only member of High Command that Megatron worries about; everyone else, Megs has a bead on, is totally confident he can take on, or both. Thunderwing, however, is a complete enigma, and is every bit as badass as Megatron. For this reason, Megatron took the unusual step of assigning one of the Megacons, Bludgeon, to serve under Thunderwing and thus keep an eye on him.

-Tyrannitron of the Sector 4/6.4-K Campaign is the youngest member of Decepticon High Command, having been born only a few million years ago (you can tell he's warborn because his name refers to his first battle rather than his place of birth). A brilliant strategist and tactician, and an equally adept personal manipulator, Tyrannitron is the commander of the Decepticon Battle Fleet. While he has shown himself quite capable of commanding troops in the field as he is ships in space, he ever commanded Vehicon drones planetside. This because, while a Point-One-Percenter like his parent Archforce (to whom he bears a striking resemblance) and thus able to punch far above his weight-class, he is a Mini-Con. Given the might-makes-right philosophy of the Decepticons, this would mean that, where he to lead ordinary troops, he would face constant challenges to prove his fitness to lead, which while he is confident of winning said challenges (again, Point-One-Percenter), he doesn't have the patience. On the upside, it also meant that, unlike, say, Thunderwing, he has managed to avoid setting off the suspicions of Megatron and his inner circle.

(thanks to @cirex101 for helping me with the next three)

Jhiaxus: Second best. That is the phrase that most Decepticons, and even some Autobots, would describe Jhiaxus, a brilliant scientist. Second best to Shockwave. Jhiaxus knows this what his peers think of him, and it infuriates and drives him in equal measure. In order to escape from under SHockwave's shadow he revolutionized the Decepticon's budding system, creating legions of warriors almost overnight. However, these warrioers are little more than cheap cannon fodder for the Decepticon cause, and have a shorter life expectancy on the battlefield compared to the older Decpticon warriors, earning them the derisive nickname "Genericons". At the urging of Shockwave, Megatron assigned the Genericon legions to mere garrison duties, or to throw them at Autobot defenses whenever Megatron needs to distract the Bots from his true objective. This ignoble fate to what was once his crowning achievement only spurs Jhiaxus to improve upon his designs, upgrading the Genericons, an creating even more horrible monstrosities in his lab.

Currently, Jhiaxus is in command of ‘Con controlled Cybertron

Onslaught: A decorated veteran officer of the Primal Vanguard, Onslaught left that prestigious institution in defiance of Functionism's, and by extension, Senator Proteus', growing power on Cybertron. Onslaught signed on with the Decepticon movement, and used his military knowhow to win several victories during the Functionist revolt. Onslaught and his elite team, the Combaticons, were responsible for several daring raids into Autobot held territory, and gained a reputation for planning almost every outcome. However, the old saying, "No plan survives contact with the enemy", rings true, and although he plans for almost anything, Onslaught cannot plan for every eventuality, and if enough things go wrong, will lose his cool and resort to simply blowing the slag out of the enemy. This deficiency prevents Onslaught from moving up in the Decepticon Hierarchy, but he doesn't let it show on the surface, and is liable to kill anyone who attempts to taunt him.

Razorclaw: While Onslaught plans ahead of the battle, Razorclaw makes his plans durring the middle of battle. His ability to take the unexpected with a clear, cool head makes Razorclaw's Predacons one of the fiercest squads in the entire Decepticon war machine. Emotionless almost to Shockwave's level, Razorclaw was a gladiator, but he and his team operated in Vos, and as such never met Megatron in the arena. However, he had heard of Megatron, and pledged his loyalty to him at the onset of the Functionist Revolt, ruthlessly hunting down Proteus' supporters with a silent enthusiasm that was as unnerving as it was effective. Razorclaw is straightforward, and doesn't seek advancment in the ranks, seemingly content in his current position. Some see this as laziness, but if you look beneath his contentment, you will see that Razorclaw is one of the most dangerous Decepticons because of this; he cannot be bought, bribed, intimidated, cajoled, or manipulated. All that matters to him is the hunt, and many an unfortunate Con that got on his badside became the prey.

BTW, something I tried to indicate but I'm not sure came through. There were two kinds of gladiatorial combat on Cybertron prior to the Great War, Arena Games, which were legal, restricted to trained gladiators, and had strict rules to minimize lethality, and Pit Fights, which were illegal, anyone can have a go, and the only rules are to put on a good show and try not to kill the audience. Mind, given how much punishment TFs can take, Pit Fights aren't that much more brutal or lethal than Arena Games. The real appeal of the Pit Fights is in their unpredictability; you can see a master of Metallikato go up against some big guy with a rocket punch, see a Beast-former take on a Tank, or who knows what.

Anyways, Razorclaw was an Arena Gladiator, because (as SB and SV poster Q99 put it...)

Razorclaw is a smart fighter, and he loves outfighting his opponents. Arena Fighters are almost all trained combatants at the upper levels, of the type he loves defeating, so once he's in the upper ranks his foes are almost all high-quality... though still not a match for him. Pit Fighters, you're more likely to see foes rely on raw power or a gimmick, and while he respects the more skilled fighters there, he doesn't want to waste time with the 'chaff' who got in because they happen to be a tank or such, or deal with silly 'three lesser bots vs one champ' matches, and as pit fighters are less regimented even good fighters there spend more time dealing with that kind of thing.

Which adds a bit of tension because Megatron and half of High Command were Kaonian Pit Fighters, so naturally they're going to think poorly of a Vosian Arena Gladiator. BTW, speaking of raw power versus skill, I imagine that... -Megatron, of course, is both hella powerful and crazy skilled

-Thunderwing is as well.

-Shockwave is actually a terrible fighter but makes up for her lack of skill with raw power.

-Starscream is the opposite; physically the weakest member of High Command, but makes up for it with skill.

-Scorponok is a beast, and he's got raw talent at fighting, but has no polish or finesse.

-Cryotek's strong, and used to be a good fighter, but he's rusty.

-Soundwave is a good mix of power and skill.

-Tyrannitron is similar, but has a fondness for trickery, head games, and such.

-Tarn is just this side of invincible, but finds brute force distasteful.

(the next three are thanks to @cirex101 again)

-Jhiaxus is unskilled, makes up for it with power, but not to the same extant as Shockwave.

-Onslaught has strength, but finesse he saves for his strategies.

-Razorclaw is both skilled and strong, but not to the same extant as Megatron, or Thunderwing.

-Dirt Boss was a scrappy little guy who always preferred to cheat. This may be one of the reasons he's dead.

Now I know what you’re thinking; Dirt Boss? You didn’t mention Dirt Boss. That’s because he’s dead, having been killed by Prowl. Before that, Dirt Boss was commander of the Combat Engineering Corps, and a member of Megatron's inner circle. Since his death, the Constructicons have resisted any attempt to appoint a permanent replacement and instead take turns holding the office. Megatron is not happy about this, but is unwilling to make an issue of it.

A few bits and bobs about Deception High Command:

-The Megacons are not technically members of High Command, but as Megatron's personal goon squad, each member holds comparable authority. In addition to the original line-up (sans Bludgeon) of Airachnid, Blackout, Thunderblast, and Lugnut, they've since added Lugnut's lover Strika, her conjunx Obsidian, and Megatron's personal medic, Scalpel. -A personality conflict I neglected to mention; while she doesn't act on it, Shockwave really doesn't like Cryotek, for reasons that should be obvious. -I haven't figured out what Tarn did before the War; I can't decide if he was also a Pit Fighter or if he did something else. What do you guys think?

-In addition to Shockwave and Tarantulas, a surprising number of the top Decepticons have science backgrounds (thanks to SVer KageX)

For Starscream since he was leader of the Exploration Corps perhaps his expertise lies not in the lab developing new weapons but in "surveying" areas and coming up with ways to exploit resources as well as how to survive in them. Think of the difference between a Geologist and a Chemist. Yes there is some overlap, but they focus on different areas of application. Starscream focuses on planning "field operations" and harvesting resources in his area of scientific expertise. He would know how to fix a shuttle, but it would not be his area of expertise, just something he picked up along the way as he was exploring distant areas of the universe. It would also explain his slippery nature, as this job would likely involve meeting with and negotiating with Alien Races. So Starscream became quite good at "negotiations" and other political endeavors.

- Shockwave is a polymath who is a master of all fields of hard science. Jhiaxus is more specialized; he does cybergenetics, mechanobiology, electronics, etc. but if you ask him about astrophysics or climatology, he's got nothing. Scorponok is interested in organic biology, but doesn't advertise this, since your average 'Con is at best apathetic about organics, and many actively hate 'em. Thunderwing is a dabbler; he reads scientific journals*, and will periodically come up with a clever idea, but doesn't really pursue the sciences.

-How Thunderwing came up with Pretender Shells: after conquering a particular planet, he made a point of studying their tech base, realized that some of their tech could be combined with Cybertronian tech to do something interesting, and sent Shockwave a memo. Shockwave agreed he was onto something, and she and Tarantulas made something out of it.

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several-very-small-eggs · 6 years

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Rewatching veggietales 1 (Rack, Shack & Benny) + lots of overthinking

Was feeling nostalgic, so why not.

- K: i think this is the most we see of the kitchen in any of the episodes. There's a sink, cabinets, and a toaster over by the computer

- K: and larry has an oven mitt on his head, and has fallen into said sink. I'll never understand fashion

- i feel like mr nezzer is breaking a lot of labor laws, regarding starting work at 8 and getting lunch at 3, plus not being allowed any breaks. Laura also mentions that she sends all the money home to her family, which paints a fairly bleak picture of the universe in which this episode is set.

- George says that the factory produces 638 chocolate bunnies per day, but the opening song shows dozens being made and packaged within the first few minutes of the workday. Unless mr nezzer is artificially lowering supply, something is definitely fishy (or George is horrible at math)

- "shack, our parents aren't here now, we're on our own" i won't say anything more about the apocalyptic nature of this universe, but its rather odd for a (Christian) kids tv show.

- heartwarming song from shack about his mum, rather comforting. Now two full grown men are crying at it.

- "actually boss, i think the tomato is sitting" ah, the joys of not having limbs to show whether a character is standing or sitting.

-"we could use boys who know how to stand up here at nezzer chocolate" low standards for management here

- George saying "this time anyway" like he's trying to say u shouldn't always do what u think is right? In my good Christian neighborhood?

- talking about the bunny, something something worshiping false idols

- Benny sassing mr nezzer "im not familiar with that particular tune"

- im p sure i can see the foreshadowing here, but im not sure what the outcome of the three musketeers not worshipping the idol will be. Dont they get thrown into an incinerator?

- seeing a vegetable dancing is a strange experience.

- and now they've taken lsd. Flying Technicolor bunnies.

- now backup dancers that look like shacks mom

- he's low-key threatening that of they don't sing the song he's going to kill them. What the hell Phil?

- what would i do, George? Sing along to avoid being killed, even if i don't agree. You can do things you don't believe in if not doing it would be worse. Like retail jobs!

- we talk with George for five seconds and now it's morning. George the narrator is a god, but cannot count how many bunnies the factory makes in a day.

- oh god the amount of torque on that hinge to move the giant metal bunny up must be ungodly. Why didnt he just build it upright and skip the dramatics?

- wide shot of the workers, Laura, Shack, rack, and Benny are the only non pea workers. Wonder why, aside from animation restrictions.

- the announcers stage extends on spindly little rails. I'm getting the feeling physics isn't particularly important in this world /s

- i get the message, but this seems like a scenario where one should cut their losses and go along with it. Being this stubborn will not be good for you in entry level jobs.

- also, no one else is singing, just bowing. Cmon mr nezzer.

- and now, death of vegetable by carrot guards. And Laura is standing up for them

- SILLY SONG: the dance of the cucumber, translated by Bob, in which larry throws intense shade at bob. Bob tries to argue, but larry only speaks Spanish

- SS: is a poncho and sombrero actually accurate? I know it's stereotypical, but sometimes they're semi accurate, so I'm not sure

- SS: the fuck is with the dwarves confusing his mother for something else?? What is this joke i don't get in a kids show?

- SS: now bob can neither dance, nor sing. He's going to beat larry up now.

- they are going down the line to the incinerator now, and nezzer is being a manipulative twerp

- this is objectively terrifying, even as a teenager. Now they're flying through the air ducts to funky music. Tonal shift much

- the guard has fallen into the chocolate and ruined the batch. With all these interruptions, i can see how only 638 bunnies are made each day

- "Nobody bakes my buddies" a slogan against marijuana, and against incinerating striking workers.

- and now.... theres a Jesus? Everything is dark but the incinerator is shooting beams of white light, and nezzer looks shocked and mildly intimidated.

- yup Jesus came to save the day. Go oily Josh. Or was it George, who has godly powers? I didnt see him outside of the furnace. #illuminaticonfirmed 😲

- now he's changed his tune and is a good man bc three people didn't die. Character development, at least.

- nezzer is either reeeaaally faking it, or he's had a traumatizing moment, and wants to appease the three beings capable of surviving being dropped into a furnace and summoning Jesus.

- now shack is singing a new song. How do the pea workers know the song? Musical rules?

- also the French peas are pre-french makeover. Odd to hear them without the accent

- now, earthquakes ravage the desert, bc an entire factory building is dancing along to the song. Scientists are still baffled.

- K: and larry the oven mitt head is still stuck in the sink

- K: Bob hates the ending song for some reason, and had waterboarded larry to make him stop.

- K: MORALS TIME. Dont do anything you dont want to do. Don't go with the flow of the crowd.

- K: larry has a complex backstory. Family beach home, wanting to go see a circus. Don't see as much of that in later episodes.

- K: bob is catapulting larry out, at the price of being stuck himself. How selfless.

- K: the h*ck kinda name is Thessalonians?

- K: bob is not allowed to leave the sink. He is being shamed. The credits are rolling and he is still in there

Overall: 7/10 good intentions, moral doesn't always work in real life. Apocalyptic setting was new, as was the abusive boss.

(Why did i decide to do this?)

#veggietales #swearing #live commentary #i watched these all the time as a kid #feeling real nostalgic

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planetsam · 6 years

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STALI + PROM for the promts

They are huddled around each other, whispering frantically. Kali rolls her eyes at the sight of it because honestly. She’s not here for it. She grabs the oj out of the fridge and drinks from the carton because why the hell not. Setting it down she crosses her arms.

“Okay, out with it, who died?” she demands, drawing their eyes to her, “you all look—“ she puts on a face, “so who died. And it better not be one of those dogs or house pets or something.”

“Steve’s dignity,” Mike volunteers.

“I wasn’t aware he had any,” Kali says.

“That’s the problem,” Lucas says, “his ass got dumped, then it got kicked, then it got dumped again. Now it’s prom.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. This whole thing seems dumb to her. But what does she know? She was too busy surviving to deal with things like high school. Or middle school. Or any school. She sure as hell didn’t have a Mike to go over her vocabulary or think the sun shone out of her ass. She fixes her sister with a look, singling her out for an explanation.

“Prom is—“

“I know what prom is!” she barks, “why do you care who Steve goes with? It’s just a dance.”

“Steve likes to dance.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” she says, dropping the carton back into the fridge. There’s a moment of whispering which she enjoys maybe a little too much before her sister hops forward, “yes?” she asks, like they haven’t been speaking, “can I help you?”

“Steve likes to dance,” she repeats, giving her an earnest look that Kali wants to not find adorable, “you like Steve.”

“I find Steve more tolerable than most,” Kali corrects, “he understands the importance of good hair.”

Her sister huffs out a breath, Kali sees her fingers itch towards the bob she’s now sporting. She rolls her eyes again, making sure her disgust is plain on her face and turns around, ready to walk out of the room. The flurry of whispers makes her pause because she is only human after all, but it gives an opening for one of them to shove the other forward. Mike, the good one she might privately think, opens his mouth but Dustin, the most enthusiastic one, is the one who talks.

“Take Steve to prom.”

“Bold. What makes you think I’ll do that?” she asks.

“You haven’t said no yet,” Dustin tells her.

He’s got her there.

“Look you go, you dance—you have to dance—you have a good time. Then you come back and we never speak of it again. Plus you do something nice for the most tolerable guy and he doesn’t end high school with his heart ripped out and his dignity in a blender.”

Kali raises her eyebrows at him because, honestly, if they want to talk about a loss of dignity she will tell them things. She glances at her sister who gives her a look, a plea that she really doesn’t want to listen to. So she doesn’t, she leaves. That, above and beyond, is the best part of freedom. She doesn’t have to stay in any fucking awkward rooms or situations. That’s pretty spectacular. It doesn’t account for where she goes next though and some parts of her definitely haven’t gotten the freedom message since she winds up seeking out Steve.

“Studying Steve,” she drawls, “whatcha reading?”

“Chemistry,” he says.

If there’s one thing Kali likes, it’s that Steve is accessible. He doesn’t have the sharp brilliance Nancy can cut with, or the haughty genius that Jonathan hides behind. He doesn’t roll his eyes at the fact that she didn’t graduate high school or even go to school. She lays on the desk, rolling her eyes when he gathers her hair and nudges it to the side. He does the same thing when she flops a hand back. Just to be daring she rolls over to see if he’ll move her boob if she lays on his homework. She takes care not to wrinkle it though.

“Kali, is there something you need?” He asks, looking at her.

“Well I have food, a roof, those ankle biters running around,” she lists, gathering up his papers and moving them to the side so she can swing her legs on either side of his chair. He doesn’t get the memo and she plucks the chemistry book from him, marking his place and setting it aside, “so my needs are taken care of.”

“Okay,” he says slowly.

“Ask me what I want,” she orders.

Steve swallows visibly and Kali draws a lot of pleasure from that. She’s always been a power hungry thing, even before the lab. Not a glass half full or half empty, but a glass should be how I want it kind of person. Dr. Brenner had called her disagreeable, abrasive. She made his favorite scientist slit his throat in front of him. Normally she’s opposed to any push back, but Steve’s comes with that infuriatingly ingrained goodness she both hates and doesn’t. She can’t reach the chair legs but she does drag her toes up his thigh slowly.

“Ask me,” she repeats, dipping a circle that takes her toes back to his knee before snaking higher.

“What do you want?” He rasps and she rewards that by sliding off the desk, putting her knees on either side of him on he chair and settling her weight on his lap, “Kals–”

She kisses her name off his lips.

She doesn’t need a nickname, it slipped out one night and had stunned her like a slap. It’s not even like the thing is shorter than her actual name. But Steve throws it around casually, slings an arm over her shoulders and it’s like every good summer day wrapped together and pushed into her chest. Needless to say it’s taken time to let him say it so often. Steve presses into the kiss, like he does whenever she initiates. His hands always start out butterfly soft, checking that this and that are okay today. It’s a kindness that slices through her defenses. She doesn’t want soft right now, though. She doesn’t want another argument for the favor the kids asked. So she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip and grinds on him. His fingers dig into the perfect spots on her spinal column and she moans into his mouth.

“Wait, wait–” he rips back, “chemistry–”

She tugs his head back, meeting his gaze. His lips say chemistry, the rest of him doesn’t have that message.

“You’d better work fast then,” she says.

She doesn’t have to twist his arm more than that.

“So, tell me about prom,” she says as he tries to pick the book up and pretend she’s not naked, “who are you going with? How are you doing your hair?”

“You want to know about prom?” Steve repeats. She shrugs. She doesn’t care if it comes off casually or not, honestly once the clothes are off Steve tends to get quite distracted. “I’m not—“

“Don’t say you’re not going,” she orders, “you look like the type whose had his tux picked out for years.”

“As you keep telling me, there’s more to life than high school,” he points out.

“Well I know that,” she says sagely, “but I’m a genius.”

“And I’m just Steve,” he says and she really doesn’t like the resignation in his tone, “who has a chemistry lab report due tomorrow.”

Kali looses her taste for the teasing. The things Steve resigns himself to are baffling. Annoying. She read in a book once that the mirror hurts. Seeing your flaws reflected back at you is never fun. Steve is a mirror if she ever saw one and it pisses her the hell off. She kicks herself up and shimmies into her jeans, throwing her shirt over her head. She leaves her panties on the back of the chair and lets him interpret that as he will.

It’s the end of the story, but not quite.

Kali takes for granted her illusions. They are as natural to her as breathing. When ten prom dress catalogs appear in a stack on the bathroom floor, her head starts throbbing. When the themed magazines start appearing between pages of text books, Steve ignores them. When she rolls on one that’s been stuffed underneath his covers, interrupting an otherwise excellent make-out session, she snaps.

“Woah, where are you going?” Steve says, catching the back of her knee when she goes to get off of him.

“I’m going to make them eat this,” she snarls, waving it in his face.

“Babe, they’re just being kids,” he says, tugging the magazine from her fingertips. She relinquishes it after a moment of resistance and he tosses it aside, “Prom’s dumb.”

“Then why do they think it’s such a big deal?” She questions. He shrugs helplessly and her frustration boils up again, “fine! Don’t tell me. It’s no sweat off my nose!”

She hauls herself away with him, pausing only long enough to grab the magazine on her way out. She slams the door behind her, ignoring the sound of his groan and the bed creaking under his back. There are cold showers for that. She is still going to make them eat the magazine. They can share it, she doesn’t care that they’re kids. It’s time to learn to be grown ups.

“Is that my magazine?”

Kali is torn between embarrassment and rage. Whatever her feeling are on the pale brunette standing there, the undeniable fact is that she managed to get the lab closed. No powers, no knowledge, nothing. There is nothing special about her and Kali hates the fact that for all her skill, this girl has dealt more of a blow to the monsters than she has. It’s frustrating in the extreme, especially to the part of her that keeps half her head shaved. Which, incidentally, is also the part of her that is most grateful. Kali loathes it.

“Your brother and his friends are dropping hints about prom,” she snaps walking over to Nancy, “your other magazines are around here somewhere.”

“That’s mean of them,” she says with a frown.

“Why? Because prom can’t happen without you?” Kali snaps and Nancy arches a perfectly shaped brow, “I didn’t realize you were the patron saint of school dances.”

“If you want to go to prom you can,” Nancy says, evenly slicing through all of her lies.

“Why would I want to go to some stupid school dance?” She snaps, “I’ve got far better ways to waste my time on something so idiotic.”

The door clicks behind her and she swears because, damn, Steve was going to need a cold shower. She has no idea if she wants to kill Nancy, Steve or herself more. She declares it a three way tie and rounds on the closest one.

“He heard me!” She snarls.

“Probably,” Nancy says, like this it’s a big deal, “hopefully he knows you didn’t mean it,” Nancy looks at her, “maybe you should go check.”

“No!” She says, maybe too loudly. But it doesn’t matter. Dances are lame, this is stupid and she all but rips the magazine out of Nancy’s hands. Then she bolts. She might be awful at everything else, but she’s good at that.

But not as good as her sister is at finding people.

“God, what do you want?!” She demands when she’s found far sooner than she’d like.

Her sister sits down quietly and reaches into her pocket. Kali almost laughs when she sees the flat compact of makeup she’s got in her hand. The sound comes out harsh though, too harsh for that. Doubt flickers across her sisters face before she just her chin out and looks at Kali.

“I want to talk about Snow Ball,” she says. Kali raises her eyebrows, “not this,” she elaborates, “Snow Ball the dance.”

Jane tells her in short sentences about the dance and it’s significance, about how Mike had invited her twice to it. She talks about punch and sparklers and all the things that someone like her would focus on. The entire time she twists the compact in her hand, over and over, like it’s somehow giving her strength.

“I wore this,” she says, “I remembered how to put it on after you showed me. Mike said—“

“I don’t want to know what your boyfriend said,” Kali says.

“It wasn’t scary.”

Kali glares at her.

“You think I’m scared?” She demands.

“Yes. I was.”

“We’ve been over this. I am not you.”

She isn’t. Jane is good, deep deep down. She hasn’t learned the lessons Kali has. Those things matter more than she wishes they did. Especially in situations like this. She looks down hard at the cover of the now crumpled magazine so she won’t have to see Jane’s face as she comes to that realization again. She’s not ready to see that again. Instead Jane wraps her arms around her, hugging her tightly.

“You’re braver,” she says.

“Sod off,” Kali says scrubbing under her eyes, annoyed that she’s crying, “he doesn’t want to go to prom anyway.”

“Boys can be dumb,” she says sitting next to her. She turns easily to a page that’s been dog eared and hands it back to her, “here.”

Kali takes one look at the title and rolls her eyes. Jane keeps look at her as Kali sputters before dropping the magazine and flopping backwards. Jane drops her head onto her stomach and Kali makes it look like there are shooting stars streaking across the sky. It feels like the best part of when they were kids, even if they are a million miles from that.

She’s glad she didn’t run far, by the time they leave Jane’s half asleep and Kali winds up giving her a piggy back ride home. She puts Jane in bed and then heads to Steve’s house. That’s the beauty of being able to be invisible—coupled with the beauty of Steve’s parents never being home. He’s hunched over a different textbook this time. It’s late. But the windows open despite the chill in a silent invitation. So she slips inside. He look up at her but she shakes her head, closing the window. He turns back to the textbook and she falls asleep to the scratch of his pencil and the missed chance.

“I’m going to prom with the guys,” Steve says from the fridge a few days later.

“What guys?” Dustin calls and Steve lifts his head long enough to roll his eyes at him, “seriously, what guys? You hang out with us all the time.”

“There’s a few of us going stag,” he says.

“Stag’s when you don’t have a date,” Max says, “Billy goes stag to everything.”

Steve shrugs as she’s overcome with a familiar feeling that she’s missed her chance. At what, she can’t say. Actually she can’t do anything because if she leaves he’ll follow and making him think she’s there seems excessive. Rather, it seems like an admission of guilt. So she just sits there eating, pretending not to care. He wanted to go to prom, he’s going to prom, that’s it.

It’s not like she cares about his stupid dance anyway.

When he looks at her a little too long she gets up because of course he sees through it. So much for effort. She tips her plate into the sink and walks off.

“Don’t follow me,” she orders quietly, without looking back to see him come around the corner.

Two days later Dustin shoves the brightly colored ticket at her.

“He’s going with his friends,” she points out.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says and she glares, “look I know you’re embarrassed but I can tell you from personal experience, being at a dance with no-one to dance with sucks balls.”

“I’m sure he’s got—“

“Stop making excuses and just go to the dance,” Dustin says. Kali wonders if he knows what she’s actually capable of. What she really wants to do. “And if you need something else you’ll shock him because he’s not excepting it after hearing you trash it.”

“Maybe I trashed it for a reason,” she shoots back.

“We know the reason,” Dustin says and Kali is not a fan of the way that makes her feel.

“I don’t have a dress,” she says.

“We took care of that.”

She raises an eyebrow, inspecting his baggy jeans, t-shirt and flannel slowly. Letting him see her inspecting them.

“Stay there,” he says and walks away. She reaffirms the awfulness of the idea when he reappears, “here.”

“Is she your go-to girl or something?” Kali demands, looking at him, “don’t you have any female friends?”

“Hey!” Nancy objects, putting a hand on Dustin’s shoulder.

“I have two,” Dustin says, “but Max and El would just let you wear that,” he adds, motioning to her jeans.

“It’s funny, none of those magazines you left around had any tips about shopping for prom dresses with an ex,” she say.

“So you did read them!” Dustin says.

“Do you want my help or not?” Nancy questions.

Kali really, really hates her. She needs her bullshit back. Leveled with such a direct question, she’s got few choices. It’s a stupid dance, she reminds herself. This is all stupid, it’s got no right to take up this much room in her head.

“I don’t know how you deal with this bullshit,” she snaps at Nancy who looks at her evenly.

“I don’t, that’s why I’m helping you.”

Damn.

She’s holding it together, barely, when Steve drags himself out of bed to get ready. Maybe he’s too wrapped up in his own tension to notice hers. Or maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe—she cuts herself off. What a load of bullshit, she thinks hotly as she gets up and flushes the toilet in the other bathroom to hurry him up. By the time she gets out he’s dressed in a slim navy tuxedo that looks a lot different from the garish ones she’s seen boys wearing. He actually doesn’t look like a boy at all. He looks good.

“Okay I’m off,” he says unnecessarily, something gut wrenching in his eyes.

“Have fun,” she hears herself say. He nods, “Steve—“ he turns and looks at her, but an instant later a horn breaks the air. His friends are here. She licks her dry lips, “you look nice,” she offers lamely.

“Thanks,” he mumbles and walks away.

The door closes and she almost collapses in the disappointment that clutches her chest.

She fucked it up again.

“I fucked it up, didn’t I?” She says, knowing that she’ll be heard even before the door opens.

“No time,” Jane orders.

“Jane,” she begins.

“No time!” Jane barks and sets down a case. Nancy is on her heels. Kali feels a stab of doubt because maybe it’s better that she isn’t there. But Nancy is putting a dress on the ground. When she looks at Jane, the girl nods encouragingly. “Like Snow Ball.”

Right, Kali thinks, like Snow Ball. She really has lost it. She takes her clothes off and steps into the pile of fabric. The two girls zip her up into the one shouldered creation. It feels right, she thinks. One side is normal, the side with her longer hair. The other is more abrasive, like bearing a wound or teeth. The only concession she makes is the lightness of her makeup. Shields down, as Dustin would say.

She glances in the mirror.

It feels like a huge mistake.

All of this does. Suddenly the face that’s looking back at her is familiar. It isn’t one of choice, of creation. It’s hers. Her mother’s eyes, her father’s lips. All of it has been tugged up. She feels like an onion and not just because of how her eyes are burning. She feels peeled back. Nancy gives her the most encouraging smile she’s ever had and Jane nods like she knows.

“He’s going to leave early and I can only go so fast,” Max says.

“I’ll stop the police,” Kali says.

“Physics,” Max points out.

“That’s me,” Jane says.

“Just get in the car!” Nancy orders.

Kali makes it a point to avoid schools. School dances. She should have avoided school boys as well, but that’s a lesson for next time. Steve’s easy to spot, but that’s not a surprise. Not difficult either. People are talking to him but she realizes that they’re cycling out. Keeping him company. That he’s not having a good time. Wrapping herself in illusions she slips, unseen, past everyone until she’s behind him and taps his shoulder.

“Want to dance?” She asks.

His eyes almost bug out of his head and she’s strongly reminded of their first kiss.

She likes that memory.

His eyes take in everything. The dress, the exposed tattoo, they settle on her face though. Which is funny since he’s seen her without makeup on. Her war paint he named it once. But he hasn’t seen her out like that. He’s stunned into silence but after a moment it’s a little ridiculous. She’s already in the dress after all. She drops the smile and rolls her eyes.

“Did you inhale too much hairspray again? I said—“

He kisses her.

In public.

It’s a good enough kiss that she allows it, though she thinks to have words with him later about interrupting. It helps when his wraps around her and he pulls her even closer. She likes it when he kisses like that. He tastes like punch cut with cheap booze and it’s the first time she’s ever not hated the sick sweet smell of the fake fruit.

“You’re here,” he breathes and she grins.

“Seemed easier than fighting off all these high school chicks,” she says with a shrug, her arms still loosely around his neck, “since I am her, we should dance.”

“Yeah, just—“ he reaches into his lapel and pulls out the flower they were giving to the guys. Carefully he tucks it behind her ear and Kali tells the butterflies she swallowed to calm the hell down, “now we can dance.”

She rolls her eyes and makes sure he sees her do it.

“You’re so dramatic,” she says and he grins at her.

“Maybe,” he says, “but I’m in good company.”

Since she can’t really argue with that, she figures it’s best to just lay her head against his chest and let him lead. And maybe check every so often to make sure he’s still grinning like an idiot. Steve winds up never sitting against the wall again. Kali still might think prom is dumb but Steve might be worth a few dumb things, now and again. Since there are so many of them after all. If Max was right and Steve had plans to leave early, she becomes wrong.

They leave last.

#kali prasad #steve harrington #stali #kali x steve #steve x kali #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #eleven #jane hopper #nancy wheeler #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #prompts

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marvel-girl-13 · 4 years

Text

TBN (Old Writing/Plotting)

Warning(s): Language (mild), future forecasting, old writing/plotting, unfinished/cliffhanger

Word Count: 4267

Summary: This is the start of something I started to write in 2014 that involved a view of if science decided to use advanced human genetics (out of boredom, mostly) for entertainment purposes. In this world, scientists clone humans into different types of beings (i.e. planners, morphers, pyros, rounds, etc.) that are used purely for entertainment in the form of gladiator-type fighting matches. Summary of the character types and potential characters that I plotted are found here. I really put in a lot of work for the plot, but the writing lost steam quickly (naturally). I did like what I did come up with, so here we are. I never did name the plot stuffs, so if anyone has suggestions I would love to hear them!

A child takes its first breath of life. The mother is crying, both from the pain and from joy. The father is smiling, proud of both his wife and heir.

A clone takes its first breath. The mother says nothing. The father lies in fragments in a petri-dish underground in a sanitized, closed lab.

By the year 2100, the human race had grown restless. Hardly anything new that was of any great importance had been discovered, even in the scientific community. Countries and cultures had learned to keep to themselves after much disagreement over the years, as they all knew that each and every one of them possessed enough nuclear weaponry to destroy the planet; there was no longer any point in China attacking Japan or the United States bombing the United Kingdom. There would be no avoiding the retaliation they would be sure to receive for such a move, and a full out war wouldn’t leave any of the others out of harm’s way. They all learned to accept the fact that fighting would only end in the death of their race and perhaps even that of the entire biology of the planet.

In the scientific community, several discoveries had been made since 2000 that proved to be beneficial. In due time people were able to regain limbs they had lost, regain their sight and any destroyed senses, and catch deformed genes before any sort of harm came to the person. They still had yet to be able to fix the genes and solve the major diseases that came with them, such as cancer; but they were significantly further along in their forms of medical treatment and prevention. But the most successful of their scientific advances was the manipulation and duplication of genes; a process that included the creation of functional human clones.

There were no wars to be funded and really no great armies to keep maintained, so government funding went into the science field. At first, the scientists were baffled by the grants they received. The large sums were enough to go through with all of the major projects they had been working on for the past decade, and then some. Before they knew it, there were no more dire experiments and studies to be done; only those that remained involved more experimental ideas and theories that stemmed off of the more pressing projects. And that included the alteration of genetics.

Scientists had been struggling for years with the idea that they could change an organism’s genes to reflect desired traits. This would not only include eye color and facial structure, but also the immune system strength and nutrient intake. Many of them believed that this would be a window into the spectrum of evolution, allowing them to take it into their own hands to somehow get it to move a lot more quickly and precisely. Now that the community had a great deal more resources and funding, a large variety and collection of scientists from every field were able to dedicate themselves to this task and focus their all upon it. With so many minds at work, it wasn’t long before they were able to engineer a rat that was immune to all types of rodent poisons and had the ability to regrow any limb that was removed from it. The creature only lived for roughly a year, dying of natural causes, but the experiment was a success regardless.

The scientists moved on from rodents to an assortment of other animals, tempering with different species as well as different organism classes. In the process, they attempted to merge together two classes that were drastically different from one another; they quickly discovered that such a feat was impossible, due to the differences in the creatures’ genomes. The egg that they managed to create couldn’t even be fertilized, and even if any of the specimens were able to be, the divided zygote was riddled with unbalanced chromosome pairs and fragments that prevented it from forming anything at all. The scientists were forced to abandon any prospects of merging structurally different strands of DNA, and were left with just reshaping and reprogramming what was already available.

They managed to progress very quickly, becoming increasingly successful with each organism they worked with. At first, plants were the most successful and considered to be less risky than working with the more complex rat; but with each achievement came boldness and the desire to keep pushing forward with the experiments, to move on to bigger, better, and definitely more dangerous things. Not to mention suggestions and additional funds were now being pumped into the project. People with the money as well a significant amount of political power had become interested in the genetic advancements, and were eager to find a way to get them to somehow benefit themselves. It was them who shoved the scientists in the direction of larger and more complex creatures, and eventually “nudged” them into the realm of altering the chromosomes of the human species.

The transfiguring of human specimens had been a long discussed topic in countless meetings between the scientists. It was difficult to say how many people were for the idea and how many were against it; but the most obvious fact had been for a long time was that it would be too difficult to get correct, and to ensure that whatever came about as a result of the changes would survive long enough to be considered even worth it was hard to say. Therefore, the scientists had chosen to ignore the idea and stick with their plants and maybe their rodents. But as they moved up in genetic complexity, there was no doubt that the notion would arise again. As the public was steadily introduced to what was going on (sometimes three or four years after the trial of each creature had been deemed successful), they and the side-funders of the scientific community began to press for the possibility of a human being next.

At an annual scientific convention in 2114, Dr. James Charleston announced that his department had just successfully produced a chimpanzee that was able to stand just as any human could and possessed a smaller jaw than its ancestors. He showed video footage of the chimp walking around the lab, and although it needed a bit of assistance and moved slower, it was an astonishing feat to witness. Never before had an organism with as close a genetic makeup to the human species been altered, nor in such a manner. For a while, the only progress made to apes and chimps had been altering body hair proportions and eye color; bone structure and skeletal features had never been touched. Many had feared that it would alter the bone chemistry and make them too soft to support the body, especially if something were to go wrong. But this was a huge leap; and several others were just as eager now with the rest of the world to take the plunge as well.

But with this great agreement came its own share of disagreement. Several scientists feared what could come about when it came to changing the genomes and having the power to alter humans before they were even born. They argued that it was unethical and a step too far; people were who they were because Nature had been random and fair. What gave them the right to change what had been working for thousands of years? The other side retorted that if they could control human evolution, then they could prepare each generation for diseases and lower the death rate by improving their immune systems; sort of like a computer that is rebooted with an updated firewall system whenever a new virus is detected or has affected it in the past. They would be open canvases and easily altered even after they were born, which would make their immune systems more likely to take on vaccines; and thus could be updated with better efficiency.

Eventually, the voice of the general public and the financers won out. As a result, those laboratories that chose to stick with organisms that were less complex than humans soon ran out of money as their funds were depleted and eventually withdrawn. The first step for a number of the other labs was to start off gradually altering donated human eggs so that the physical traits like hair and eye color were specifically what were desired of them. Like the apes that had been worked with, this was a relatively simple procedure. The children that were born were sent to orphanages and adopted, as they were no longer required and could not be further altered. However, the scientists of a major laboratory on the west coast of the United States kept a few of their female children to be used as vessels for the next trials to be done. And it was they who successfully created the first cloned humans in 2134.

Their group name was Generation 321. From one of the females from the first trials with just hair and eye color changes came two clones, each carrying partial genetics of this female and a set of altered, extra chromosomes. The mother was the only one of Generation 321 to be given an official name, and had been aptly named Eve; Eve’s offspring (both female) were given the identification numbers 321-1 and 321-2. Likewise, the first male that was born of the next three clones to 321-1 was named Adam while the other two became 321-3 and 321-4. The entire generation spanned over a thirty year period, long enough to produce all five of the clones. But before the scientists could start on the next step, the entire generation was killed from a mild bout of the chicken pox. In the process of altering the DNA, their immune systems had been weakened and therefore unable to handle even something as common as the chicken pox. Years of work were gone, and the laboratory was left to either abandon its efforts or start from scratch.

It was not alone in its struggle. However, it had come across some very important findings. A thirty year period seemed remarkable fast for a generation to grow and mature. But that was the beauty of it. Somehow the altering of the genetic sequences had accelerated the clones’ growth and maturity rate, something that had been a desired effect; but not one that had been entirely suspected to work. It was also the cause of the weakened immune systems, as the immune system had been unable to keep up with the rapid growth of the rest of the body; the more area there was to protect, the thinner the security was stretched in order to protect the new places. This allowed the chicken pox to infect and attack so harshly. But in roughly four years, each of the female clones had reached their prime for reproducing; not to mention the number of viable eggs they were able to produce, which had been demonstrated by their increase from two offspring to three.

Other laboratories were not as lucky in their findings. The clones that a good number of them managed to produce hardly made it past birth nearly seventy percent of the time; and the thirty percent that did were often male and sterile. At the time, females were greatly desired for their ability to carry and bear the offspring. The males were made purposely sterile in order to keep the clones from breeding with one another; it became a protocol, as many were afraid that if a female clone and a male clone managed to reproduce, they would become wild in order to protect each other as well as their offspring from anything they saw could harm either. The humans needed to be able to maintain control and ensure that their creations did not get out of hand. If they somehow managed to control or prohibit the presence of human emotions, then the rule could possibly be lifted; but that was something that could still be deemed as too impossible to even consider.

Eventually, after much planning and an uncountable number of failures, Generation Tempest emerged. This time, instead of taking chromosomes from a human male and a female clone, the same lab that had created Generation 321 took the donated DNA from a figure that was funding the project and his wife. They then took the halves and altered certain places in the genomes to suit the requests asked for by the couple, combined the two to create the zygote, and implanted it into a clone that had only been changed in terms of hair and eye color. The clone Eve-24 gave birth to is the first fully functional clone. A female, numbered Tempest-1, survived several illnesses, including the chicken pox, and even is immune to diseases such as hepatitis B without even being given a vaccine. Eve-24 gave birth to approximately twelve other clones like Tempest-1, nine of which are female and three that are male ―

Dr. Joseph Conroy angrily tossed the papers away onto his desk, a disgusted noise coming from his throat. The fingers of his left hand cradled his chin, rubbing against the skin in his usual nervous way. He shook his head to himself, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. But there it was. He could try as hard as he could to ignore the pure facts, to pretend that it had all never happened. But it was there, all written down. And he had even been a part of it, assisting with the alterations and looking after the final “products,” as everyone else chose to put them. Conroy glared down at the shuffled pile of papers he had cast aside, lying on his desk like a wounded bird with its wings ruffled and bent awkwardly.

Since the formation of Generation Tempest in the western coast laboratory, also known as the Southern Haven Lab, the scientists there had progressed a great deal. Not only had they managed to produce clones that were immune to disease and matured significantly quicker, but they had moved on to projects that involved altering the human genome so that the clones could possess various extended abilities. They refused to label them as “powers,” as that seemed to make the creations appear superior to the human race. They only possessed certain abilities that granted them some extra aspects and made them no more greater than a tiger was to a human being. At least, everyone who wasn’t Conroy said that they were so.

Conroy’s brow furrowed in distaste. Yes, they had come along relatively well over the decades; and he was just as proud as any scientist. But there were just some things that didn’t sit well with him. To him, the clones that they had given the abilities to were gifted; his colleagues had no right to say that they were any less than the human species just because they were artificial. Conroy was truly amazed by the creatures that they had created, especially those that he had become specialized in and looked after. They certainly deserved to be treated better than they were being. Over and over again he had tried to get his fellow scientists both in and out of conferences to understand that they were still dealing with human beings whether they liked to think so or not. But just as many times he was told to keep his mouth shut or lose his job.

And that was the most frustrating part about it all. Conroy couldn’t just drop everything and leave. He had become attached to the clones he worked with, and there was no way he could bear to leave them behind. They were helpless and lost, totally unprepared for the discrimination from those who had deemed themselves superior. He had made it his job to prepare them for their entrance into the real world, into the places they would be sent to outside the lab and away from him. Conroy didn’t fear so much for the rounds; they were pretty much humans in their own right and were found to be able to adjust a great deal easier than the other clones. The planners that he worked with, however, were often the ones he felt would suffer a bit more, as their minds were particularly fragile because they possessed so much knowledge. Conroy had seen his own fair share of planners crack under the pressure of the training they were required to go through before being sold off to their new masters. The strain of the moment when they were supposed to be following through with a certain tactic, even though it was just a simulation, caused them to fall into hysteria or freeze up as the brain shut down.

Conroy sighed, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It was moments like those that made him seriously reconsider why he was still here. Even after reading the history of his field and experiencing it, he somehow chose to remain where he was. The most obvious reason was that he really would have nowhere else to go. There was the possibility that with his knowledge he could find a job as a doctor for the clones of a master. But it would hardly be an improvement. As much as he hated to admit it, there was no denying that the world had taken on this cloning business wholeheartedly, overjoyed to be able to have something new to entertain them. And the clones and their abilities did just that; the public claimed that the creatures were just begging to be put into arenas to fight to the death. Yes, it was a little old fashioned; but it was fascinating nonetheless.

“Hey, Joe.”

Conroy lifted his head reluctantly, opening his eyes to see his friend Dr. Shaun Peterson smiling at him from the entrance to his office. He inclined his head a little bit, but did not return his smile. “Shaun.”

Shaun’s grin faltered a smidge, his brow furrowing in puzzlement as well as concern. An unhappy expression often contrasted poorly with his thin features, giving him the appearance of an old man that had been sitting in the sun too long, and it dulled his usually bright green eyes. Silence fell between them, filled only by the squeak of Conroy’s chair as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk and the sound of an exhale flaring his nostrils. He perched his chin in his hands, staring straight ahead and continuing to ponder the facts that he had been dealing with for quite some time.

After another moment or two, Shaun took a deep breath. “Joe,” he began carefully, moving slowly to stand beside his coworker. “You can’t do this to yourself. Not now.”

“I’ve been doing this to myself for years, Shaun,” Conroy said with a hint of bitterness to his tone. “Nothing’s changed. Don’t try to make it seem like it has.”

“Joe,” Shaun said a bit more insistently, leaning slightly forward. “Yes, things have changed. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“We’re animals,” Conroy groaned, burying his face in his hands. “We have absolutely no right to go about doing this…”

“Joe! For God’s sake, do you not realize what you did?!”

“What we’ve done… What we’ve done is just unethical, unorthodox…”

“Joe –“

“We have no right to be tampering with this stuff!” Conroy pulled his hands away from his face, gazing at all of the papers scattered across his desk with a mixture of agony and outrage. “And by choosing to do so, we’ve turned ourselves into –“

“Jesus Christ, Joe! You stole Tempest –“

“HER NAME IS DIANA!” With a resounding bang, Conroy slammed his palm down on the hard wood of his desk and leapt up to his feet. Shaun jumped noticeably, staring at his friend. The dark haired man across from him clenched his jaw and took a long breath through his nose, an uncomfortable silence falling between them for a moment. Both of them avoided each other’s gaze, clearly feeling the risen tension and anxiety levels in the room.

The pair had been friends ever since they had graduated from college with degrees in biology and medical science in 2168. Shaun had been a bit sheltered growing up, having been gifted with both an intense attention to details and patience when it came to studying various bacteria and viruses as well as a rather well-off home life. Being shipped off to a school across the country in the Midwestern United States had scared him pretty good, and he had often resorted to hiding out in the labs instead of heading back to his dorms most nights. It was there that Joseph Conroy had found him asleep on his microscope when he had stopped by to see if his notebook regarding the influence of bacteria on chromosomes during early development was there. The two of them had clicked immediately when Shaun admitted that he had read the notebook at some point before drifting off and then began listing the various bacteria that Conroy hadn’t tested.

Since then, Shaun and Conroy could hardly be seen anywhere without the other one either right beside him or close behind. Conroy was certainly much more outgoing than Shaun, having adjusted quite well to college life; for him, it was no different than living at home, other than the change in scenery and people. Conroy had been the youngest of his family, the fifth born in contrast to Shaun’s life as an only child; and that was why he had such passion and will that caused him to draw attention. He wasn’t afraid to look like a fool when he was struggling with failed experiments or spouting information loudly during a massive epiphany. He had been banned from the library for a semester after he had decided to continue his notes on the library wall when he had run out of whiteboard space, and was often found by Shaun to be seated on the floor in the middle of an aisle with hundreds of texts surrounding him, completely oblivious to the fact that people were trying to get by.

And above all, pretty much everyone called him Conroy instead of Joe or Joseph. Only Shaun seemed to be allowed to, as Conroy never once bothered to correct him; he just enjoyed his friend’s company too much to be able to reprimand him for something so ridiculous. Not much changed when they both graduated with their PhDs, except for the fact that he was now Dr. Conroy. Their combined project regarding bacteria’s effects on DNA caught the attention of the Southern Haven Laboratory, and they were summoned to join and contribute to their work. Shaun was able to find a way to work bacteria into the mix of it all; Conroy, however, became attached to the creatures created from the work that made them. He cared for them since birth, gaining their trust as well as that of the ones who had been there before his arrival. It wasn’t long before he became their official caretaker, taking them under his wing just like he had Shaun years ago.

But now Shaun knew that his friend had gone too far. He knew that Conroy was insanely passionate about his work, both chromosomes and clones alike; and his friend had managed to put his projects before his emotions since the beginning. But it had clearly been too much for him to handle any longer. And Shaun was scared. He gazed at Conroy, shock and disbelief lining his face. “You― You named it?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Conroy looked back at him, lifting his chin a little bit in annoyance and defiance. “Yes,” he said through slightly gritted teeth. “And I didn’t ‘steal’ her, Shaun. She isn’t a piece of property. Whether you like it or not, she’s still a human being just like the rest of us.”

“Okay,” Shaun replied slowly. “So you kidnapped her then!”

“No,” his friend replied in an equally gradual tone, frustration simmering in his eyes. He ground his teeth a little bit, hesitating. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered, but no less heated. “No, I saved her.” Conroy’s chin lifted a fraction of an inch higher, his eyes sparkling now. “Goddammit, Shaun, I saved her! She doesn’t belong in this place!” he exclaimed, his hands formed into fists at his sides. “None of them belong in this hellhole! Not if they’re going to be treated like animals with the only thing that makes them worth anything are their genetics.” Conroy shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Joe, do you even realize just how much trouble you got into doing you’re little… rescue mission?!” Shaun’s eyes were wide with fear, unable to believe that his friend could just sit there and be so focused on a matter that truthfully had nothing to do with what he saw to be the most obvious, terrifying fact. “To be honest, I’m surprised they haven’t fired you for it. And that’s me being optimistic! You removed what rightly belongs to this laboratory, something that we’ve all spent years working on and dedicated our lives to, including you! I just can’t…” He stopped, thoroughly flustered by the matter as well as his friend’s clear indifference and ignorance. “I just can’t seem to understand why the hell you did it!”

#old writing #cliffhanger #ooc #tbn #science #fiction

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mindfulwrath · 7 years

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Silver, Part III

Welcome to the depravity ocean, there will be Absolutely No Giggling.

Words: 3,738 Warnings: Alcohol (ab)use, hand trauma Part I Part II

"Oh, Henry, thank God you're back," Mrs. Cantilupe said, darting up to him and taking him by the arm.

"What's happened now?" Jekyll said, heavy with resignation.

"It's the boy, the new boy, the werewolf boy," she said. Jekyll's heart plunged into his boots.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "What's happened? Is he hurt?"

"No—no," said Mrs. Cantilupe, frowning and baffled. "Nothing like that. I'm sorry, so sorry, I've made this sound so much worse than it is, it's only Miss Lavender has been all out of sorts all day and I've gone rather frazzled."

"Understandable," Jekyll said, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his voice. The episode with Lanyon and Utterson had left him shaken, stretched thin. "Would you mind telling me what the problem is, then?"

"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Cantilupe, gesturing to the still-smoldering Society. "He went in looking for his things about an hour ago. He hasn't come out yet. We none of us really knew what to do. We were hoping you might show up, as you're the most—most friendly with the poor boy. He may be in dire need of some consoling."

"It seems a common condition," said Jekyll, his eyes roving over the ruins of the building. As he watched, Miss Lavender came shuffling from the hole where the main entrance used to be. Mrs. Cantilupe broke away from Jekyll immediately and went to her.

"How is it, dear?" she asked, taking Miss Lavender's sooty hands. Miss Lavender shook her head.

"Everything's gone," she said, hollow-voiced. "Smoke inhalation, by the looks of it. Every last specimen. All the cages still locked up tight."

Mrs. Cantilupe shut her eyes, the lines on her face deepening. She squeezed Miss Lavender's hands.

"Poor things," she said. "Poor, poor things. We did all we could, Mary."

"No notes," Miss Lavender said, her voice thickening, "no specimens, no building—we're ruined, Tammy. It's over."

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Cantilupe sniffed, lifting her chin. "We've been set back, that's all. We've still published papers, have we not? We've still got our brains, have we not? It's nothing a bit of time and money won't fix! Chin up, dear girl, it's not like we're dead."

Miss Lavender attempted a smile and failed. She sniffled. Jekyll sidled over and offered his handkerchief.

"I am terribly sorry, Miss Lavender," he said.

"Oh, it's not your fault," she said, taking his handkerchief and wiping the tears and soot from her face. A pang shot through Jekyll's chest like an arrow, poison-tipped.

"In some ways, I rather feel it is," he said.

Miss Lavender shook her head. "You couldn't possibly have known."

"If I had been here—"

"You might have gotten blown up," Mrs. Cantilupe interrupted. "Dr. Frankenstein's monster was looking particularly for you. I imagine Moreau would have taken issue with your continued survival."

"Hah hah, yes, well," said Jekyll, unnerved. "In that vein, do either of you happen to know where the esteemed doctor wound up?"

"I took charge of her, briefly," Miss Lavender said. "The creature asked me to get her somewhere safe. I . . . was under the impression, at that time, that the Society was safe enough, so I brought her to one of the guest rooms."

Jekyll's joints rusted through, locking him in place. He couldn't breathe.

"Is she—oh, dear God, don't tell me she—"

"No, no, she's alive!" Miss Lavender said hurriedly, flapping her hands. "I went back for her as soon as the fire started. The creature, too. I handed her off and he—well, I don't know where he went with her. Very far away, I should hope."

"Ah," said Jekyll, deflating. "Well, so. Back to square one, it seems."

"It's probably for the best," said Mrs. Cantilupe, patting Jekyll's shoulder. "Why don't you see if you can find young Mr. Kaylock, Henry?"

"Oh, hell, I was supposed to be doing that!" he exclaimed, hitting himself in the head. "I'm terribly sorry, ladies, I must see to him."

"He's in the foyer," Miss Lavender said. She gave Jekyll's handkerchief back to him. "Can't miss him."

"Thank you," said Jekyll. "And, again, I am so incredibly sorry about all of this."

"And, again, it's still not your fault!" Mrs. Cantilupe sang. She shooed him away, pushing him in the back with both hands until he was suitably in motion. The moment he was out of sight, he had to stop and lean against a wall. There were sparks swimming before his eyes. Every bone in his body ached. A throbbing pain had awoken behind his left eyebrow and wouldn't go away.

"I can't do this," he whispered, breathless. "I can't keep doing this."

No one, not even Hyde, contradicted him.

Jekyll found Jasper sitting on a charred bench at the side of the foyer, sooty and downcast, staring into space. He was turning a stick of charcoal in his hands. Jekyll approached carefully, cold coals crunching under his shoes, his arms folded behind his back. He tilted sideways at the waist, trying to get into Jasper's line of sight without directly confronting him.

"Ahem," he said softly. Jasper looked up, and Jekyll smiled. "Mind if I join you?"

"Oh," said Jasper, hollow-voiced. His face was stained with tears, clear tracks cut through the soot and ash. He turned his eyes back to the wreckage. "Sure. Go ahead."

Carefully, Jekyll perched on the bench next to Jasper. He sighed, clasping his hands and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"It's a mess," he said, surveying the wreckage. "Nothing a bit of time and a great deal of money won't fix, though, hah hah."

Jasper said nothing. Jekyll looked over at him. He was still turning that stick of coal in his hand. Upon closer examination, he could see that it was the spine of a book. His heart dropped.

"Well," he amended. "Perhaps . . . some things time and money can't fix."

Jasper sniffled and swallowed, his throat bobbing. Jekyll looked away hurriedly and cleared his throat.

"If it helps," he went on, "I think most of us are in the same boat. Many notebooks died this day, and—oh dear God, your creatures, I completely forgot! Are they—"

"They're fine," Jasper said. "I managed to get them out in time."

"Well, thank God for that," said Jekyll, pressing a hand to his chest as he deflated.

"Yeah," Jasper said dully. "Small blessings, right?"

Jekyll made the mistake of glancing at him again. He sat up straighter and gripped his own knees with his hands, perhaps tighter than was necessary.

"A rather large blessing, for them," he said. "I would imagine."

"It's just—" Jasper began, and broke off. When he spoke again, he had wrestled himself under better control. "It's just, I worked so hard on it. It had everything in it. I feel like it's all I had, really. The only thing that made me a real scientist. Now it's gone, I'm just. . . ."

"A scientist without a notebook," said Jekyll. "Things like this happen. It's a tragedy, yes, of course, but it's far from a catastrophe. It's only a setback. We'll recover."

"I guess," said Jasper, sounding more miserable than ever.

Jekyll reached out to touch him. He hesitated. His fingers twitched. Gently, he laid his hand on Jasper's thigh.

"I am so, terrifically sorry about all of this, Jasper," he said gently. "I can't help but feel I'm responsible for the loss of your work. If I hadn't brought you here. . . ."

Jasper looked up at him, huge eyes full of compassion. Jekyll's breath caught.

"Oh no, Dr—er, Henry," he said. "No, you couldn't've known. I loved being here, I really did. It was incredible. Even just a couple of days, it was more than I could ever've hoped for."

Jekyll swallowed. He managed a smile. He patted Jasper's leg and folded his hands back in his own lap. If he clenched them, it was only because it was cold out.

"Still," he said. "I could have brought you back to your farm, or your flat, or—set you up anywhere else, actually—and you'd still have your notes. I do feel at least partially responsible."

Wholly, he thought, unless it was Hyde hissing it in his ear.

"We're all a bit responsible, I think," said Jasper. "And I really am grateful, for what you did. I might be dead, if it weren't for you."

"Well," said Jekyll, a pleasant heat welling in his chest. "Well, it—it's my . . . duty. To—rescue my fellow scientists from the . . . the vicious masses."

Jasper touched his arm, ever so gently. It was all Jekyll could do not to lean into it. He focused on breathing instead.

"Still," said Jasper. "Thanks."

"Ah," said Jekyll. "My pleasure."

There was a moment. Jekyll rubbed his hands together. Jasper watched him, too closely, too attentively. This part of the Society was now fairly open, easily visible to passers-by. Jekyll's breath fogged the air in front of him.

"So," Jekyll said, before the silence stretched too thin. "I hear you and Miss Rachel are getting on famously."

"Y-yeah," said Jasper, blushing and rubbing the back of his head. "Sort of. She—yeah."

"Good," said Jekyll. "It's always nice for you young people to get to . . . ah, what's the word, not fraternize with each other, but—"

"Young people?" Jasper said, dubious. "We're not that much younger than you, even."

"N-no, well, perhaps not," said Jekyll. It just kept getting worse. "The—the gap may appear larger from the . . . the higher side."

Jasper made a face. He sniffled, then shivered, then sat up suddenly and hit himself in the forehead.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I've just remembered—I never gave you back your coat."

"Ah? Ah, yes, I had—I had forgotten all about it, hah hah," said Jekyll, while his heart turned somersaults. "Clearly I haven't missed it terribly."

"Still, I feel like I ought to give it back," said Jasper. "Assuming it hasn't been burnt up with everything else. It's probably still in my room, if you want to come help me look. I'm pretty sure I ran across it while I was . . . looking for other stuff."

"I'd be happy to," said Jekyll, and just barely resisted the impulse to punch himself.

"Grand," said Jasper, getting to his feet. "Thanks."

"Of course," said Jekyll, rising as well.

Jasper started off through the burned wreckage, and Jekyll flailed uselessly.

"Stupid idea," he hissed, whacking himself in the head with the heel of his palm. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

"Henry?" Jasper said.

"Yes, sorry, right behind you!" Jekyll called back. He scurried after Jasper, still cursing himself under his breath.

The search was cursory, and yielded surprisingly good fruit. They'd barely been at it for a minute when Jasper crowed out a triumphant Aha! and came up with Jekyll's overcoat. It was a bit singed at the edges, but otherwise appeared intact.

"Very good, very good," said Jekyll, already edging towards the door. This room was totally closed off from prying eyes. His hands were sweating, despite the cold.

"Here, I'll just—" Jasper said.

Before Jekyll could stop him, he'd crossed the room in two lanky, unslouching strides and swirled the coat around Jekyll's shoulders. His fingers brushed Jekyll's throat as he fastened the clasp.

"So you don't catch your death," Jasper said, smiling. The smudges of soot on his face were really rather fetching. He was standing very close. Drawn up to his full height, he had a good three inches on Jekyll, at least.

"Goodness, you're tall," Jekyll said faintly, looking up into Jasper's face.

"Uh?" said Jasper, blinking down at him. His hands had paused on the clasp, a mere hair's breadth from Jekyll's throat. His eyes were like honey, and Jekyll found he couldn't look away. One hand started sneaking up towards Jasper's face. Jekyll redirected it and gingerly removed Jasper's hands from the coat's clasp.

"I, er, I appreciate it," said Jekyll. There wasn't enough air in the room. It was suddenly too warm for the coat.

"Right," said Jasper, spellbound. "Your . . . hands are cold."

"Are they?" said Jekyll, a squeak in his voice. "Ahah, well, you know what they say! Cold hands, warm heart."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Jekyll pushed Jasper's hands farther away and released them carefully, then backed up a step.

"Good," he said. "Well."

"Right," said Jasper, slouching down and rubbing the back of his head.

"Yes," said Jekyll. He turned to go, shaking right down to his bones, buzzing with tension.

"Henry," Jasper blurted. A warm hand caught Jekyll's, pulled him to a stop and turned him back. They hung suspended in space, colored glass and candle smoke, hand in hand, and Jekyll's resolve unraveled.

"Oh, hell," he murmured.

He cupped Jasper's cheek in his hand and kissed him.

It was easy as breathing, as the first breath after a breath too long held. He tasted of roast pork and mead, his hair was coarse and tangled, his skin warm. His hand was tight on Jekyll's, his spine stiff despite the sheepish sway of his balance. Overwhelmed, Jekyll broke off, bowing his head, trying to find the air to breathe. Jasper kept swaying, like he was dizzy, like he had just come off a long sea voyage.

The reality of what he'd just done settled onto Jekyll's shoulders like a mass of chains. He staggered back, nearly tripping over himself. Jasper was standing there stunned, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"I—I'm sorry," Jekyll stammered. "I'm so sorry, I—oh God—"

Jasper blinked a couple of times, lips still parted. He drew a breath as though to speak.

Jekyll fled before he could.

You devil! Hyde cackled, turning Catherine-wheel somersaults in the cheval glass. You absolute bastard! Two days, I told you so!

"Shut up," Jekyll hissed, his back pressed to the door. He hadn't stopped shaking. He was going to be sick.

You could've been me, Hyde said, grinning ear to ear. Then none of this would be any problem at all. Nobody bats an eye if horrible Mr. Hyde sinks his nasty claws into the wolflet, but you! You who was supposed to be his mentor, you who's supposed to be the very picture of propriety! They'll never stop talking about it. Poor poor Dr. Jekyll, you've really screwed the pooch this time! Almost literally, hah~

"Shut up," he snapped, stalking to his desk. Hyde followed him, cartwheeling across every reflective surface.

Rachel's going to hate you, Hyde said. Oh, she's just going to despise you. And Jasper! Do you think that silver tongue of yours gave our little werewolf any nasty burns? Maybe it's for the best things didn't go any farther, eh?

"Be quiet, you disgusting creature," Jekyll said, his lip curling.

But I'm your disgusting creature, Hyde said. This is what happens when you try to keep me down, dear doctor. I did tell you so~

"This has nothing to do with you," Jekyll said tightly.

This has everything to do with me, Hyde purred. All that shit you bottle up has to get out somewhere, and you've lost the knack of holding it in. Face it, you need me. You need to be me. You're too weak to make it on your own.

"These are exceptional circumstances," he replied through clenched teeth. "It will not always be this hard, and you are purposefully making it harder!"

Only thing I saw getting harder was your—

The snarl that tore from Jekyll's throat tasted of blood. His fist smashed through Hyde's grinning phantom face. Glass shattered on the floor.

In the silence that followed, the pain came slowly, drop by drop, like the blood that fell from Jekyll's hand to the floor. He subsided into his chair, staring at the shards of glass embedded in his flesh. The rage drained away, leaving him hollow and soot-stained, his insides grimed with coal dust. He was too tired to move. He was too tired to do anything but stare at the blood dripping from his hand.

There was a knock at the door. He didn't answer. They entered anyway.

"Oh, good heavens," Poole twittered, bustling over to Jekyll's side. "Oh, dear, what on earth has happened?"

"Nothing, Poole," Jekyll said, his lips and tongue numb, his words mushy. "It's nothing."

"My goodness, that looks nasty," Poole said anyway, gingerly taking Jekyll's bleeding hand in both of his own. "You need a doctor, and right away!"

"I am a doctor," said Jekyll. He could barely hear his own voice.

"A different sort of doctor, you know what I meant!"

"It doesn't hurt, Poole," he murmured, vague.

Poole narrowed his watery blue eyes at Jekyll.

"Dr. Jekyll," he said. "Are you drunk, sir?"

"No, no Poole, no," he mumbled. "Just tired. I'm very tired, Poole. There's been no time. . . ."

Poole set his jaw and pursed his wrinkled lips. He took Jekyll by the elbows and coaxed him to his feet.

"Up you get, sir, up-up," he said. "Here, take my kerchief, we'll wrap up that hand. I'll not have you bleeding all over my floors, sir, that will be a nightmare and a half to clean up. There you are, wrapped up nice and tight, now let's go down to the parlor, you could use some sunlight. That's right, one foot after another, easy does it. . . ."

Poole coaxed him along, and Jekyll followed without putting up any resistance. His mind was mired in fog. Somehow they came to the parlor, and then someone foisted a glass into his uninjured hand, wrapped his fingers around it for him. There was talk of calling for a doctor. A shard of clarity pierced Jekyll's mind, like a shaft of sunlight through the fog.

"I can tend to it myself," he objected.

"No, sir, no you cannot," Poole said, and that was the end of that.

To Jekyll's great chagrin, it was Lanyon they sent for, and Lanyon who turned up all tutting and bustle to pick the glass shards out of Jekyll's hand.

"Oh, good heavens, Henry, what on earth have you done?" he exclaimed, upon seeing the bloodied mess beneath Poole's (ruined) kerchief.

"Ah," said Jekyll. A roll of the eyes, a self-deprecating smile. "I suppose I . . . tripped, or something. I still haven't slept, you know, hah hah. One does—one does get rather clumsy, I'm afraid."

"Well!" said Lanyon. "As your doctor, I am prescribing a full night's sleep at once, and don't argue with me, Henry, don't even think of arguing with me. This madness has gone on long enough, and you will sleep, or so help me, I will knock you over the head!"

Jekyll almost laughed.

"All right, Robert," he said. "As I am now apparently your patient, I will be a good patient and take my doctor's orders."

"Too right you will," Lanyon sniffed. He gripped Jekyll's wrist in one hand and brought up a pair of thin metal forceps with the other, which he then used to gesticulate to Jekyll's other hand. "Drink that whiskey they've given you, it will help with the pain. And with the sleeping."

"Is that a prescription?" Jekyll asked, teasing. "Forty cc's of whiskey, to be taken by mouth before bedtime?"

"Henry, please," Lanyon said, and there was a heaviness in his voice that Jekyll had rarely heard. He kept his eyes lowered, focused on his work as he picked the glass out of Jekyll's hand. "I know that for you, this must be merely unpleasant, but. . . ."

Jekyll winced as an inch-long sliver of glass slid out from between two knuckles. Lanyon deposited it in an ash tray Poole had provided. Jekyll did not interrupt, taking in Lanyon's frown, the tension of his jaw and shoulders, the tightness of his hand on his wrist.

"But you're scaring me, Henry," Lanyon said softly.

"Robert," Jekyll said. "It was an accident. These things happen. Perhaps I have . . . neglected my own personal needs in favor of those of the Society, but honestly! These are extreme circumstances. Things aren't so dire as all that. You're making mountains out of molehills, my dear friend."

Lanyon pursed his lips and nodded. He picked a few more bits of glass out of Jekyll's hand, then spent some time turning it back and forth, looking for bits that had escaped him. Jekyll, desperate to do at least one thing right today, drank his whiskey as he had been instructed. The pain was starting to filter back in as the fog in his head cleared. The only option seemed to be to re-fog his mind until it went away again.

"Feel like there's any left in there?" Lanyon asked.

Jekyll flexed his hand carefully, wincing.

"I don't think so," he said. "If there are, I'm sure they'll make themselves known sooner or later."

"I'm sure," said Lanyon. He raised his head and called, "Poole! Oh, Poole!"

"Yes, sir?" Poole said, materializing at Lanyon's side.

"Could you top up Dr. Jekyll's glass for him, please? I'm afraid I shall need to give him a few stitches, and I don't think he's sufficiently benumbed."

"Of course, sir," said Poole. With a delicate half-bow, he excused himself and shortly returned to refill Jekyll's glass.

"Honestly, it's not so bad as you're making it out to be-eeeee!"

A flailed foot nearly caught Lanyon in the face. The red-hot poker of pain withdrew from Jekyll's knuckle, where it had stabbed in and given the lie to his assurances. Jekyll glared at Lanyon, who, if he hadn't known better, he would have said looked pleased with himself.

"You were saying, Henry?" Lanyon said placidly.

"Oh, give me the damned whiskey," Jekyll grumbled.

"Yes, sir," said Poole, who was definitely pleased with himself, and should have known better.

"You are both of you insufferable," said Jekyll.

"Take your medicine, Henry," Lanyon scolded.

"I will get you back for this," Jekyll vowed. "I will have my vengeance."

"Of course you will," Lanyon said, patting his wrist. "Once you've slept a full eight hours, and not a second less."

Jekyll grumbled into his whiskey, but did not object further.

#tgs #the glass scientists #fanfic #there's got to be a ship name for this but i'll be damned if i know what it is

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mattbrothersscriptwriter · 5 years

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My Top 20 Films of 2018 - Part One

Hello people, time to once again resurrect this defunct blog to ramble about some films again. You may notice a trend if you scroll back through.

OK so I saw a BUNCH of movies this year, thanks again in part to some fantastic arts cinemas, film festivals (well, Sundance London and Frightfest) and yet another banner year for Netflix original content. There were many I didn’t catch like A Star is Born, First Reformed, Aquaman, BlackkKlansman etc but for my FULL ranking of all 135 films I did manage to see, as always go to my letterboxd list here - https://letterboxd.com/matt_bro/list/films-of-the-year-2018-1/

Alrighty then, let’s kick things off:

20. A Quiet Place

As a writer who is hugely inspired by high concept ideas with a grounding in genre, it thrilled me no end to see this ‘elevator pitch’ of a thriller do so well, both critically and commercially. Set in a world where making the slightest noise means certain death from these horrifying, Starship Trooper looking motherfucking bug aliens, we follow a desperate family trying to survive and all the hardships that entails when communication is cut down to a bare minimum.

Of course, this film – which in the wrong hands with a lesser script could easily devolve into a Birdemic style mess – has a helping hand right out the gate in both the star power and gravitas of Emily Blunt and the assured (almost TOO assured) direction of co-star John Krasinski. Their performances ground the action superbly (along with the excellent, actually deaf newcomer Millicent Simmonds) and the tension can be cut with a knife for practically the entire runtime. Famously, people’s enjoyment of the film usually came down to how well behaved their cinema audiences were, which is perhaps the most cruellest of circumstances because the irony is that this is a film that simply must be seen with a rapt audience in a huge dark room… but the second anyone breaks the unwritten code of the cinema, the illusion is shattered. Luckily, within the first three minutes, my crowd were practically holding their breath to maintain the silence. And when I felt a sneeze coming on, let me tell you, that was maybe the scariest moment of the lot!

A tense thrill ride with a genuine ‘why didn’t I think of that’ premise, A Quiet Place is another runaway success for modern horror and I truly hope the inevitable sequels don’t fuck with it’s power.

19. Avengers: Infinity War

Inevitable spoilers for the ending of Infinity War below:

The blockbuster to end all blockbusters, this culmination of ten years of the MCU was a huge triumph, somehow managing to juggle a billion characters jostling for screen-time via some savvy scripting and a focus on a core combination of story strands; namely Thor’s personal journey of revenge, the last stand at Wakanda, Tony’s crew misadventures in space and Thanos being ingeniously positioned as the protagonist. For a mainstream Disney movie to essentially end with the villain winning, there were perhaps no bigger statement this year than the words ‘Thanos Will Return’ at the end of the credits, cementing the fact that while we thought we had been watching a fun, superhero greatest hits package, we’d actually been watching the story of an ambitious, driven individual overcome the odds and claim his victory over all those pesky superheroes. Yes, his plan might be insane but you have to hand it to him; he did it. He actually did it.

This being a comic book movie - with at least a further ten years of comic book movies to come - obviously means that what is done can always be undone but still, this climax provided such a stark (pun intended) resolution that it left half of my audience in stunned silence and the other half in tears.

Outside of the game changing finale, the film has a lightning pace and a whole host of fun set pieces, characters colliding (hello Rocket meets Bucky) and a real sense of... at least occasional... intimacy that somehow doesn’t get completely swallowed up by the spectacle.

18. Annihilation

Now here is a fascinatingly original sci-fi movie that I just was utterly transfixed and terrified by. Much like Jonathan Glazer’s mesmerising Under the Skin, this jettisoned much of the source novel (outside of the general premise and characters) in favour of a stronger focus on the things that a visual medium can really excel at, namely atmosphere, tone and deeply disconcerting visuals/sound design. I quite enjoyed Jeff VanderMeer’s book but this feels like a much more authored and singular vision. Book weirdness has been replaced by movie weirdness and it actually ends up feeling like a true adaptation and if any book truthers are upset, believe me it could have been so much worse.

A group of scientists, led by a stoic Jennifer Jason Leigh, including Natalie Portman, Gina Rodriguez and Tessa Thompson, venture into ‘the shimmer’, a baffling electromagnetic field surrounding a crashed alien meteor. Each has their reasons for volunteering for this suicide mission and they are soon faced with the simply unknowable machinations of this particular alien biology, leading to some incredibly memorable encounters, not least of which is a nightmarish mutant bear attack. The practically wordless finale is something I WISH I could have seen for the first time on the big screen.

Eerie, haunting and a miracle of mid-budget, practically distribution-less filmmaking, this is one I can see revisiting many times over and I continue to be obsessed over anything Alex Garland is involved with.

17. Anna and the Apocalypse

Now here’s a surprise. And a delight. And a goddamn joyful burst of sunshine in a bleak bleak world. I went along to see this at the Frightfest Film Festival in August and boy did it deliver. It’s a (*huge breath*) super independent, low budget, Scottish, high school, coming of age, zombie comedy… Christmas… musical! That’s too many things, I hear you say! And normally you may be right but this film has so much heart, so many breakout stars, so many ingenious, human moments, that it transcends the hurdles of it’s genre mashup trappings and actually works dammit.

The film follows Anna (a wonderful, future star in the making Ella Hunt) who falls out with her father (Mark Benton, the heart and soul of the piece) when she tells him that when school finishes, she’d rather go travelling than go to university. Dad being Dad, he’s appalled at the notion and though he clearly has her best interests at heart, their relationship has been strained since Anna’s mother died and this conflict soon gets ugly. Joining her in this teenage angst are her friends; John (Malcolm Cumming), her best friend who is hopelessly in love with her, Steph (Sarah Swire – who pulls double duty as the film’s choreographer) a gay American outcast, Chris (Christopher Leveaux) a struggling filmmaker and Lisa (Marli Siu), Chris’ girlfriend and talented singer. Together, they butt heads with the panto villainy of the hilarious, scene stealing, scenery chewing Paul Kaye as the maniacal headmaster Mr Savage. Then of course, comes the ultimate spanner in the works… a zombie apocalypse.

As the film pivots from charming high school/slice of life melodrama to genuinely threatening zombie horror comedy, we cannot forget about the musical numbers (!), which are all pretty uniformly catchy as hell, singalong ready and really fucking integral to the entire emotional arc. You start out laughing as Anna sings her way to school completely oblivious to the zombie uprising happening behind her but by the time she’s singing a powerful duet with her father during the finale, there won’t be a dry eye in the house either. It’s a credit to the consistent tone and solid performances that the whole thing doesn’t descend into an overlong sketch and it’s the core relationships that make you care and give weight to the heavier moments in the second half.

It’s funny, smart, endlessly rewatchable and bound to be a new Christmas staple but above all else, it earns it’s emotional gut punches, marrying showtunes with real, life or death stakes that the film doesn’t fuck about with or ignore. People die here, sometimes unfairly but that’s the key to a great zombie flick. And if nothing else, you’ve got bad boy Nick (a stand out Ben Wiggins) shepherding his gang of idiot lads lads lads as they gleefully smash zombie heads in whilst singing “when it comes to killing zombies, I’m the top of my class!”.

The year’s best kept secret and a real hidden gem. Seek it out.

16. Black Panther

Ryan Coogler man… Ryan fucking Coogler.

Fruitvale Station and Creed are both five star movies to me and while this foray into the Marvel machine didn’t quite hit those heights, I think he did the best job he could have in blending his own style, ethos and interests with another chapter in the MCU – a production line rather famous for (until recently) stamping out individuality in favour of the bigger, uniformed picture. Sometime around Phase 2, we were getting somewhat bland creative choices like Alan Taylor (Thor: The Dark World) and losing auteurs like Edgar Wright (initially set for Ant Man) but after the success of the nutty, bold and gleefully anarchic Guardians of the Galaxy, it’s like the flood gates opened, Kevin Feige learned the lesson of diversity and taking bold risks in his directors and suddenly we had a mostly improvised Thor movie from idiosyncratic Kiwi Taika Waititi and then Black Panther.

Having introduced the character in Captain America: Civil War, this film was free to dive right in – and what a world we’re introduced to, one full of colour, afro-futurist designs and the grand daddy of Marvel villains (in my eyes) in the form of Coogler’s lucky charm, Michael B. Jordan, as Killmonger. Here was a man who believed himself abandoned and betrayed by his own people - his own family - who had massively different ideas about what Wakanda’s secretive technological advancements could do for other marginalised societies around the world. Of course, this being a comic book, his plan inevitably boils down to arming terror factions but in theory, it did address the imbalance and selfishness of the Wakandan people.

Outside of some dodgy super suit vs super suit CG fight scenes and some rather silly battle scenes involving rhinos, this was the most engaging and confident Marvel movie in some time, with the aforementioned B. Jordan and T’Challa himself Chadwick Boseman being supported by a whos who of incredible performers, from Letitia Wright and Lupita Nyong’o to Daniel Kaluuya and Andy Serkis.

15. The Square

This film killed me. It’s so very very dry in its humour and nearly every scene plays out in these often painfully long takes but it never fails in making every moment that bit funnier as a result, swinging right round from awkward to cringe back to hilarious again. From Christian’s (Claes Bang) repeated encounters with a very angry child to a deliriously off-kilter Elisabeth Moss fighting for control of a used condom, there’s a Curb-like immaturity to many of the sequences here that clash with the high brow, art world characters that populate it.

Not to mention one of the scenes of the year - period - as Terry Notary terrorises an elitist crowd of poshos, descending into performance art hijinks as he embodies a roaming Gorilla. Becoming genuinely threatening as the line between acceptable “art” and full blown menace gets increasingly blurred, the reactions (or lack thereof) from many of the crowd says much more than words maybe ever can.

14. Summer of 84

Another genre hit that I caught at Frightfest, this is the follow up to one of my favourite films of 2015: Turbo Kid. Directed once more by RKSS (the group moniker for François Simard, Anouk Whissell and Yoann-Karl Whissell) the film seems to operate, at first glance, in the same territory as their previous movie (aka as a horror influenced, 80s throwback) but it is treated with a completely different tone. Whereas Turbo Kid is ‘Mad Max on BMXs made like an 18 rated Saturday morning cartoon’, this plays like a much straighter Stephen King style pulp thriller.

The comparisons to Stranger Things are inevitable (group of nerdy teenage boys, suburbia, bikes etc) but unfair. This story doesn’t wallow in nostalgia, rather it is played like a film from the 80s rather than knowingly about the 80s. Yes there are references but they aren’t shoehorned in and it doesn’t take long for the central mystery to take centre stage. A little bit Rear Window, it follows these goofy teenagers (all unknowns to my eyes, all equally brilliant and believable) who begin to suspect that their homely, cop neighbour (Mad Men’s Rich Sommer) is actually a serial killer. It’s to the film’s credit that the outcome of this central question – is he or isn’t he – teeters back and forth so well for so long... that by the time it nosedives into a nasty, pulpy final act - taking the conventions you’ve come to expect and beating you into the ground with them - your heart will be so far in the back of your throat that you won’t notice. And again, another classy retro score from Le Matos helps tie this all together.

A genuine change of pace from RKSS, despite the continued 80s fixation, and further proof that they have many more tricks up their sleeve.

13. First Man

Along with Ryan Coogler, Damian Chazelle is the other wunderkid whose career has been producing nothing but five star films for me (well, Whiplash and La La Land; I haven’t seen his actual debut). And First Man, like Black Panther, is another one that gets really close to perfection but falls slightly short. Having said that, I definitely think I like First Man a lot more than the general audience consensus. People have complained about its insular, intimate focus on a rather dull, introverted lead subject and the nauseating treatment of space travel but I loved both of these elements.

This is less a film about triumphantly going to the moon and waving a flag around and more about a grieving man who is so out of touch with his own emotions that he a) speaks to his own children as if he’s attending a press conference and b) is hurting so internally that rather than talk to anyone about the loss of his daughter, he’d rather make the dangerous, unprecedented, insane mission to a cold, dead rock about as far away from anyone as you can get. That feeling - of wanting to shut yourself away from literally everyone - is universal. The actualisation of it - man goes to moon - is personal. And made history. And having the foresight to connect that emotional journey of Neil Armstrong with the otherwise feel-good true story of astronauts (and America!) winning the space race is genius.

Add to that compelling supporting turns from everyone from Claire Foy, Kyle Chandler, Christopher Abbott and Shea Wigham, another dynamite score from long-time collaborator Justin Hurwitz and some nerve shredding rocket based set pieces and what you have is a fresh direction for Chazelle to take and one that I think we be re-evaluated in the years to come when his filmography expands to much more than just jazz-infused dramas.

12. Phantom Thread

This film is just gorgeous. A riveting character study of a supremely difficult man, Phantom Thread portrays a constant battle for dominance in a troubled yet surprisingly cinematic relationship. Vicky Krieps and Lesley Manville give as good as they get from Daniel ‘this is my last film, I swear’ Day-Lewis, an undeniable acting giant who effortlessly breathes as much life into Reynolds Woodcock here as he did Daniel Plainview before, in his last collaboration with Paul Thomas Anderson.

Beautifully shot with another fantastic score from Johnny Greenwood, this one really feels like old school movie magic, like a lost melodrama from the 50s but with a modern mentality bubbling underneath, ready to blow it’s top at the mere, ear-splitting scrape of butter on toast.

11. Widows

Who’d have imagined the director of Hunger, Shame and 12 Years a Slave would be the one to team up with Gone Girl’s Gillian Flynn to deliver one of the best action thrillers of the year?

Adapted from the 80s TV mini-series and given a modern makeover, this film wastes no time getting right to the important stuff as Liam Neeson’s latest heist takes a deadly turn, leaving the widows of him and his crew to deal with the fallout of the failed money grab. Forced into desperate action to pay off their debts, Viola Davis leads this mismatched group of women into the belly of the beast. The cast in this thing is insane - even outside the main players (Elizabeth Debicki, Michelle Rodriguez, Cynthia Erivo) you have Colin Farrell, Bryan Tyree Henry (having one hell of a year), Daniel Kaluuya, Robert Duvall, Carrie Coon, Jacki Weaver, Garrett Dillahunt... not a weak link amoung them.

It’s clear that McQueen is a master storyteller and this is a supremely exciting and suspenseful thriller that if nothing else, adds fuel to my ‘Jon Bernthal shared universe’ fan-theory, haha. Imagine, if you will, that he plays the same character in this as he does in Baby Driver. In both films, he takes part in an opening heist and then disappears for the rest of the movie. In Baby Driver, as he’s walking off after a job well done, he says that if you don’t see him again, he’s probably dead. Cut to him joining up with Neeson on THIS job and promptly getting blown to pieces.

Boom.

COMING UP - star shaped earrings, reloading biceps, fish sex and a mutant pig

#top 20 #films of the year #films of 2018 #20-11 #a quiet place #avengers #infinity war #annihilation #anna and the apocalypse #black panther #the square #summer of 84 #first man #phantom thread #widows

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rebeccadunne · 7 years

Text

Your Chroma

by Sinead Gleeson from the latest edition of essential Irish literary journal Gorse

How does it start? The black of pre-consciousness, the pink

of uterine breaths, the red highways of arteries, splayed.

The beginning is red.

Fly over

This country

Of the body.

A spy photographer

On an aerial loop.

There is

breast and

brain and

bladder and

bowel.

Begin the descent to bone.

Dive into fissures of marrow,

To the source,

The red and white cells

of the blood.

Canada,

Japan,

Poland,

Peru.

Venal Vexillology.

III

To put down words about the body—medical, biological,

anatomical—is to present the body as fact. Its being in the

world—a being ‘being’—is irrefutable.

There is a photo of you. Your child body in a red dress at

a trout farm, the brown glitter of a fish wriggling on the

end of the rod’s line. You smile for the camera, and avoid

looking at the bubble of blood at its mouth. Its red gasps.

‘Colour is consciousness itself, colour is feeling,’ said William

Gass, who prioritised blue above red. Blue, he writes, is ‘most

suitable as the colour of interior life.’ Blue, above corporeal

red? What was he thinking?

How do we decide this interior colour? We are one colour in

life, another in death; one in youth, another in old age; one

in sickness, another in good health. We channel Yves Klein

and create a new shade for the interior. A born again hue.

VII

Because of his synaesthesia, Wassily Kandinsky associated

colours with shapes, and sounds. For him, red was a square,

the ‘sound of a loud drum beat.’

VIII

Repeat red over and over—red red red red red red red red

red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red

red red red red red—and it’s a hum, a drill, a drumroll. It is

also not-blue, not-green, not-black, not-white.

In the Tate, Rothko’s reds are dreamlike, hazy around

the edges. Are they on the canvas or under it, bleeding

through?

In an old cinema, long closed down, we watched Derek

Jarman’s Blue. I’m curious about his choice of colour, but

don’t question his motivation to use blue. In his book Chroma,

he says: ‘I know my colours are not yours. Two colours are

never the same, even if they’re from the same tube.’ I think

of his eyes and his failing sight. To be a person who has

spent their life looking, photographing, regarding—and

now cannot see.

You are both redheads, and tell me you like to mark this

by taking photos of the backs of your heads. You do this

in special places. Howth pier, the Cliffs of Moher, various

lighthouses.

XII

There is a black and white photo in a local newspaper,

dating from the 1930s. It’s creased, and heavily pixelated,

with that old photo blur. But it’s him, Red Con. This is the

only photo we’ve tracked down. I’ve never met him, nor has

my father, but we are related. I descend from red hair.

XIII

If blue, as Gass argues, is the colour of interior life, this

makes red a colour of the exterior. But red is the body. Red

is blood, organs, tendons, the red elements:

Rashes

Hives

Sores

The raised bridge of a new scar

Platelets working on the crust of a cut

The speckle of heat rash, like pebbles on the bed of a

stream.

XIV

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge in a convertible,

sucking in cool Californian air, they argue about the shade

of the steel. Red. Scarlet. Terracotta. Red again, some

consensus. Circular talk of colour under the shadow of

heavy cables, but he knows the bridge’s shade is officially

called ‘International Orange.’ The company that makes the

paint sells a cheaper version called ‘Fireweed.’ He takes this

as a sign to roll a joint and tells his friends that 98% of

people who jump into the bay don’t survive. Those who do

always have the same injuries: broken vertebrae, smashed

ribs, punctured lungs.

You say tomato

I say blood

You say traffic light

I say muscle

You say fire engine

I say vein

XVI

LITTLE

Across the woods, basket swinging on a girlish arm, she

weaves off the path to pick flowers. Hood as protector—

stay hidden, girl, cover yourself up—in a tocsin shade of red.

Anti-camouflage. Here I am, come and get me! it says. And so

the wolf did.

RED

Get up! Her mother pulls the blanket off her teenage bed.

Take this to your granny, and wear your hood, it’s cold. The girl

is menstrual, cramped, innards torn. Her mother relents,

returning with a hot water bottle, and a box of Feminax.

There is a wolf in her womb, and she placates it with hot,

vulcanised rubber and codeine.

RIDING

The girl remarks on the size of her grandmother’s ears, eyes,

and teeth, failing to notice the lupine mouth, the rich pelt,

the cross-dressing, the anthropomorphic imposter in the

bed.

HOOD

In the belly of the wolf, she is safe. She cannot be eaten again.

Consumption saves her from more (male) consumption.

Stay hidden girl. Belly as cave.

XVII

Fairytales are always about women’s bodies. Rapunzel’s hair

and Sleeping Beauty’s somnolent face and Snow White

choking and Cinderella dancing with glass-slippered feet.

XVIII

Not glass slippers, but her aunt buys her red clogs, the first

shoes she ever loves. The heavy wooden stomp on the

concrete of the street, the scarlet curve of the leather a

possibility. She learns that women are meant to wear heels;

that heels appear to lengthen a woman’s leg, to accentuate

her calf, to make her more attractive. She decides she will

only wear clogs, or no shoes at all.

XVIX

Four women in black body con dresses gyrate to a 1980s

song. Robert Palmer, dressed like someone’s office manager

dad rolls through Addicted to Love. The women are heavily

made up, their eye shadow a palette of storm-cloud colours,

but it’s their lipstick I’m obsessed with: my mother’s matt

pinks and creamy browns having nothing on this. This red is

a declaration of war. The gloss is so high it looks like glass.

I practise on my lips with saliva. The models are arranged

democratically, two either side of Palmer. The only contrast

in uniformity is their faces and length of their dresses. Their

whiteness is a shock, the scraped-back hair severe. These

porcelain-faced, storm-eyed she-tomatons are part homage

to Art Deco painter Patrick Nagel’s women. The shock and

sheen of their scarlet lips is the only thing that interrupts their

monochrome faces. Is it because it’s the ’80s that the scene

is so homogenous, so lacking in multiculturalism? White

bodies the epitome of capitalism, even in pop music.

How should we present our face to the world?

How should we present our (female) face to the world?

Make-upped, pore-blocked in shades of ivory and sand.

Brow-arched, lash-lacquered, glitter-lidded. Branded by

brands.

XXI

We used to paint our lips with whale blubber, but now it’s

mostly wax and oils. I have yet to find the perfect shade of

red lipstick. Too orange, too ephemeral, too knife slash.

XXII

I once worked as editor of a spa magazine. I wrote dull

copy about acrylic nails and Glycolic peels, and was sent

endless products: emery boards and seaweed unguents,

poultices and tanning sprays; exfoliation aids in wood and

sisal. I interviewed a woman who gave facials with coloured

oils selected for a person’s mood and personality. Part spa

treatment, part mystical woo. In her tiny salon, above a pub,

she told me about oneness and inner beauty, self-examination

and higher powers. After a pause in her well-rehearsed pitch,

she pointed to a fleshy bump on my forehead and said:

Would you not get that removed?

XXIII

In 1967, Irish-born writer Lucy Grealy moved to the US

with her family. Life opened up with possibility, but aged

nine she was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a rare facial

cancer. Grealy endured thirty operations, radiation and

chemotherapy. In Autobiography of a Face, her novelistic

memoir, she writes: ‘This singularity of meaning—I was

my face, I was ugliness—though sometimes unbearable, also

offered a possible point of escape. It became the launching

pad from which to lift off, the one immediately recognisable

place to point to when asked what was wrong with my life.

Everything led to it, everything receded from it—my face as

personal vanishing point.’

XXIV

I have never broken a limb, even if my bones are

troublesome.

I have never needed stitches because of a cut.

I have never exposed my insides except for surgical

wounds.

My skin resealed with metal, paper and thread.

XXV

When my teenage hip started to disintegrate, baffled doctors

kept asking increasingly random questions:

Did you fall?

(Who doesn’t?)

Have you ever been knocked down by a car? (Once, but the driver

was going slow and we lived in a cul-de-sac.)

Have you ever had a tropical disease? (Can you get one from

going to Spain?)

Have you ever been bitten by an animal or strange creature? (I tell

him about Lough Derg.)

XXVI

At Dromineer, Lough Derg was like a beach. I swam out

far from the shore to float in the navy current that skirted

the lake like isobars. Swimming back, I stood when the

water was knee high, and felt a sharp pinch on my foot. It

wasn’t glass, and felt more like a bite, but I couldn’t see what

lurked beneath. I thought of monsters and sea demons, the

creature of the lake. There are not enough horror films set

underwater.

XXVII

A hotel exterior, painted walls, a fleeing woman in a scarlet

coat, the vertical lines of blood on a hanging woman’s legs, a

nosebleed, a trickle from a mouth. In Suspiria, Dario Argento

reminds us that we bleed; that the body is vulnerable—not

just to psychologies and fear—but to knives and violence.

The body is the ultimate horror setting.

XXVIII

I look at the mottled skin at your back as a forensic scientist

examines blood splatter.

XXIX

After major surgery:

I wake up to find my skin yellow and assume this is iodine

or antiseptic used to prep the body for being opened to the

elements.

I wake up to find that this yellow is not an ointment, but

bruising, from the pressure of knives, the kneading of

hands.

I wake up to red and yellow patches, pools of colour, the

body’s semaphore.

I wake up during hip replacement surgery and feel strong

hands shoving, the weight of arms, a rearrangement.

Who’s pushing me? I ask, before the anaesthetist tops up

the spinal block, shoving me back under the waves.

XXX

Arthritis and surgery withered my bones. My left leg is

thinner than the right, full of metal and scars. Frida Kahlo’s

right leg was thinner than her left, a result of childhood polio.

Kahlo painted not just her body, not just pain, but body and

pain united. Exposed spinal columns, a womb that triggered

miscarriages, herself pierced by nails in multiple works. In

her diary, she wrote: ‘I am DISINTEGRATION.’

XXXI

Eventually Kahlo’s leg was amputated below the knee and

in 1953, a year before her death, she had a prosthetic limb

made. A laced-platform boot with Chinese embroidery in

red leather. Red as defiance, and for the body and for all the

blood she’d shed.

XXXII

For nearly three months, I wore a cast that covered most

of me. When it was removed, the skin had piled up, and

looked like wax. The sediment of immobility. Removing it

was like rubbing smudges on a windowpane. I felt like a

snake shedding its skin.

XXXIII

Bones are hard as rock but our edges—skin, lids—are not

shores. The body is an island of sorts, containing several

isthmuses, in the throat, fallopian tube, prostate, thyroid,

urethra, aorta, uterus. Body as outpost, as tidal island.

XXXIV

In Northern Ireland we pass bays and inlets, but also red

phone boxes, red postboxes. Imperial, post-Colonial red.

The red stripe of St George’s flag, many Red Hands of

Ulster.

XXXV

I think of you as though you are a map. Of the contours of

your jaw, the hill of your back, the compass of your arms. I

see them now, at 10 and 2, an almost-Jesus on a cross. I try

to imagine your body at 11:11, or 12:34.

XXXVI

We play The Alphabet Body game and you laugh when I get

Z. What about Zinn’s Zonule? I offer, but you think I’m making

it up. The suspensory ligament holding the crystalline lens

of the eye in place. It’s not immediately tangible; there are

no children’s flash cards like there are for eye or mouth.

Zygomatic Bone you say, and ask me its location. It sounds like

zygote, so I guess it is uterine or cervical. I’ll answer by kissing

you there you say, and brush your lips against my cheekbone.

XXXVII

After the birth of my daughter, by C-section, my husband

said he looked up at the wrong time and saw my intestines.

The operating theatre floor looked like a murder had been

committed. And you were red too on the outside, viscous

and slippery as albumen, but your skin was blue, your lungs

working to inflate.

XXXVIII

After the birth of my son, he weighs no more than a couple

of bags of sugar, but I cannot pick him up. A new pain

in my wrist is intense, and feels close to the surface, like

someone tipping a scalding cup over it. I take a glass lift five

floors to see a man who will fix it. De Quervain’s Syndrome,

he says. Can you get it from lifting babies, who are light,

almost not there? Two tendons wrap around each other in a

red embrace. One surgical slit with a scalpel, like a ribbon-

cutting ceremony and it will be free. This injury is also called

Washerwoman’s Sprain (not Washerman’s).

XXXIX

The patron saint of childbirth, St. Margaret of Antioch, was

a committed virgin. Tortured for her faith, her flesh slashed

with nails, she was given the title after an encounter with

a dragon. The creature swallowed her whole, so Margaret

made the sign of the cross and promptly burst out of its

stomach, Alien-style. (Film critic Mark Kermode once said

that Alien is a film about male fear of childbirth).

I know a girl with Rosacea, which makes me think of

‘Rosary,’ not red. The skin is affected with papules and

pustules, reminding me of holy beads. I love these words

for awful things, and the galaxy of red under the moons of

her eyes.

XLI

You do not own your body if you live in this country. Your

womb is not under your control. Legislation owns your

ovaries. Lawyers lay claim to your fallopian tubes. The

government pays stamp duty on your cervix.

XLII

Tick tock, women’s body clocks.

Have a baby even though you’re not ready.

Have a baby when you can’t afford a home.

Have a baby when you’ve been raped.

Have a baby because you can’t afford the airfare to London

or Liverpool.

Have a baby between twenty and thirty-four, it’s the optimum

fertility window, they

keep

reminding

us.

The ticking of ovaries, your body as timepiece, swinging on

a chain.

XLIII

Heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

HIPS! TITS! LIPS! POWER! (REPEAT)

XLIV

Once you enter the medical system, there are rooms and

hospital numbers, blue disposable gowns and Styrofoam

cups. There are people speaking—always speaking—asking

questions, taking details. The body you think of as yours

is not private. It is in the system, on charts, in operating

theatres. Your body needs to take the lift to x-ray. Your body

needs to drink more fluids. Your body needs to come back

in three months. Your body is ours.

XLV

Just before her lumpectomy, photographer Jo Spence wrote

on her left breast: Property of Jo Spence? The question mark is

defiant and panic-stricken. The need to hold on to this part

of herself. To assert autonomy, even over the toxic growth

in her chest. To have a say in her own medical life. Later,

post-lumpectomy, Spence is photographed in profile, breast

puckered and scarred. Wearing a crash helmet, the image is

uncompromising. Come at me, it says.

XLVI

In the hospital, you are not supposed to use your hands.

In the bathroom, toilets flush and taps spill and blue

paper towels dispense with the wave of a sensor. Germs,

cleanliness, DO NOT TOUCH. The ward is a bubble,

confined and contained, and I feel like Margaret Atwood’s

‘Girl Without Hands.’

No one can enter that circle

you have made, that clean circle

of dead space you have made

and stay inside,

mourning because it is clean.*

XLVII

He used to give himself stigmata. Burning the hollow of his

hand with cigarettes. Pressing the red sieve tip into his heart

line, head line, life line. This is for you, he said, but I know it

connected him to himself.

XLVIII

The Catholic Church’s list of notable stigmatics is comprised

mostly of women, including St. Catherine of Siena. Born in

the mid-fourteenth century, she believed she was married

to Jesus, and that her (invisible) wedding ring was made of

his foreskin. Her stigmatic wounds were visible only to her,

and she suffered from anaemia. Every day, she fasted and

engaged in self-flagellation until she drew blood. In one of

many letters to her confessor, Raymond of Capua, she spoke

of a vision where she leads her followers into the wound in

Christ’s side, guiding an army into his blood.

XLIX

My birthday is the anniversary of the death of St. Ignatius

Loyola. Once a soldier, he was shot through the hip,

shattering his leg. I’ve never gone to war or been beatified.

There is no redness in death. Maybe this is where William

Gass’ interior blue comes in. But the body turns many

colours at the end: white, grey, blue, purple, a tinge of green.

The body spent and stopped and still is not red.

But when will the red stop?

When will I die?

When will you?

#sinead gleeson #gorse #literary journal #writing #new irish writing #irish #your chroma #red

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